The bird does not sing because it has skill. The bird sings because it has a melody.
It sings because silence too long held becomes ache. It sings as rivers do—without purpose, but with direction. We keep looking for meaning in the rhythm of wings, in the cadence of chirps, as if thesis hides there, as if beauty were a proof awaiting defense. But the bird sings the way fire glows, the way tides reach: not because it must, but because it is.
I Think I Wanted to Write This I think I wanted to write this. But the thought arrived already half-formed— like light from a star that died before I was born.
Somewhere, a boy chose the clarinet over the trumpet and called it a decision. But it was the weight of the case, the shine of the reed, the tone of his father’s voice when he said, “That’s a good sound.”
We are constellations mistaking ourselves for maps. We name the stars and think we invented the sky.
We want to believe in choice— because we want to believe in belief. Faith in freedom becomes the freedom.
But show me where intent begins— not action, but prelude to action, the whisper behind impulse, the first flicker of the invisible match.
Every neuron fires because of another, because of a childhood, because of a sugar crash, because the dog barked at 3:07 a.m.
We speak of choice as if we were not born mid-sentence, handed a script with half the words smudged.
I think I wanted to write this. But maybe it was the only thing I could have written.
