The Mockingbird

For Dustin. Inspired by ????????.


If all the world is a stage, then the setting will be a fishbowl. I’ve got the blue rocks, the plastic astronaut, the toy ship, and the sunken treasure. My fishbowl is bigger, though. There are real predators out here. There are real victims.

When you are one of many you learn safety in numbers, but I missed that. We all did. The only thing I’ve ever learned is that real leaders learn to adapt. Change can be progression or digression. It can be whatever you want it to be. I’ve always chosen progression over anything. Being a stagnant body of water was never attractive to me. I live in one and it never changes.

Down here there are no cardboard cut-outs. We live so many leagues down that the water pressure is too great for many other species. No aircraft carriers interrupt our sleep and no fishing hooks offer fake meals. We are so far down that at times everything can be completely dark.

It’s so deep out here that we don’t even have tears. But we know what the fuck we’re doing down here.

Even though I was so far beneath the surface, I could always sense that there was something else out there. I always felt like if the sun was shining just right and I looked hard enough, that I could see a Mockingbird flying right above me. And sometimes I did.

It sang such sad songs. In between it’s verses and choruses I would talk to the Mockingbird and ask why it was so sad. The bird had beautiful stories and would tell me about the best laid plans of mice and men. It would reach out to me and I would try my best to help. Being from these depths you have a lot of time to think and formulate thoughts.

I would tell the Mockingbird not to worry about the past and the future but to focus on the present and the bird would listen and take it all in. But it seemed as if every night the bird forgot everything I said. All of our conversations started and ended the same. I was not familiar with the way things worked in the sky. I’d never felt the wind at my back or the clouds on my wings, therefore nothing I said held any true weight. All my words got swept away in the tide. This bird was not familiar with the way we did things in the water.

I was determined to help this Mockingbird. However, the first step in helping a bird is convincing it not to fly away and this bird had an issue with staying grounded. I can only help those who want to be helped. I can only help those who come to me. But this bird kept coming back.

It was like the bird was addicted to the pain and the sorrow and the emptiness. Eventually I decided to stop writing all my responses in the sand and looked for something more permanent. I came up with a story and etched it in stone. I thought my action would speak louder than the words. It didn’t matter. The bird was hopeless and helpless.

It hit me one day. This mockingbird was unoriginal. It was the same songs in a different voice. This mockingbird was in denial. It wasn’t unique. I am unique because I don’t sing. I am not a beggar or a chooser and I still refuse to participate in this game. This bird couldn’t be helped. Deep down I knew I was the one that could do it, but I refuse to live my life like that. Maybe some other time.

I decided I would rather drown than go unheard, so I said good-bye to the mockingbird and left. Every once in awhile when I’m by myself I can still hear the mockingbirds songs. They never change. Things never change. People never change. And the world remains a stage.

William Wallace.

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