Early Sunday morning. A car stops on State Street because a flock of geese crosses the road. They are doing what they’ve been doing for millions of years. Moving from Point A to Point B. They’ve experienced disease, drought, famine, and legitimate predators—not the weekend gun-jockeys that pop them off in parks during three-day hunts sanctioned by the city—and they have survived. But this driver doesn’t give a shit. Agitated, they honk their horn.
They’ve got someplace important to be.
McDonald’s for breakfast.
The Marathon station for smokes.
Their weekly dose of righteousness.
When the oncoming lane clears, the driver swerves over the center line and races down the street.
I get it. We have lives to live. Roles to fulfill and expectations to meet. There’s pressure, real or not, that we feel on a daily basis. And when we don’t address it, it builds. And it can get ugly. We get irritated. We put up walls. Or worse yet, we reach out to other frustrated fucks and commiserate. Strengthening negativity and feeding the ignorance that grows as a result of blindly following like-mindedness.
Pick your party.
We all want to be heard. But nobody wants to listen.
Not to one another. Not to the moment.
And especially not to the goddamned geese.