“You’ll think this is a bit silly, but I’m a bit–well, I have a thing about birds.” “What, a phobia?” “Sort of.” “Well, that’s the common term for an irrational fear of birds.” “What do they call a rational fear of birds, then?”

“I wish I were more of a person and less of a bird”, I say out loud in the dark. My cat moves on the pillow next to my head so I stroke the space between her ears. She makes a sound that resembles a melody from my forgotten country and falls asleep again. I think about departures and running away. For a moment, when the cat pushes her paw into my neck, I think about her and how I am not such a great care-taker: how I don’t carry her in embrace and rather on my shoulder if at all; how I don’t play with her much apart from the time when I throw my pens across the room. On the other hand – it seems she is all right with that – she doesn’t like to be held or baby-talked to. Nurture vs. nature, I guess. Her tail lands on my face so I move away. It’s a big bed, double I presume, and there is two of us – there is enough space to sleep together yet apart. I am sure I must smirk when I try to imagine an extra person sleeping here with us… However – maybe they could reassure me I am not just a birdy and more of a human. Maybe there would be someone to stroke my empty bones and tickle with the fallen out feathers… I sigh and that alone makes my cat change the position once again. I stare into her black paw but don’t do anything this time. Seconds then minutes pass. I sigh again but nothing happens. Suddenly I think in panic that it’s already winter and I haven’t migrated south. When the morning comes it’s just empty shells and fallen out fur on my bed. I imagine I’m no longer.

“Your silence will not protect you.”

So I’ve been silent for a while – there are actually reasons for that, however every time I’ve considered writing why I am not writing I have either found myself lost in my own sentences or simply decided that I don’t want to.

In the most vague way it’s possible – my absence here was caused by the fact that I am no longer completely anonymous. Those who know that THIS IS ME are a handful of people really; less than the number of fingers on my hand – yet – an index finger too many. An index finger that points at me and with its fingernail scratches the inside of my skull…

So I have become silent (yet again)  – my middle finger to the world so to speak[1].

I might still be showing the finger, nevertheless – I have realized I no longer need to stay silent (after all – it’s always silent under the water). Ready or not, here I come…

fuck

[1] Or at least part of it.