What's the deal with life, you ask? Beats me. I've been contemplating my own exit strategy so often that I forgot to consider if the darn birds outside my window are as tormented with existential dread as I am. Now ain't that a peck on the cheek of irony?
The late, somewhat great Sigmund Freud might’ve mumbled something about dreams being the royal road to a deeper understanding—thanks, Siggy, but every time I nap, I'm just reminded I have to wake up again. So, what about our feathered pals? Ever caught one snoozing like it's got a tax return due?
Once upon a twilight, I ogled a slumbering night heron in Brooklyn Bridge Park. The little guy was curled up like a sushi roll of sadness. And Aristotle? Buddy watched a dog twitch in its sleep and slapped the label of 'mental life' on it like butter on bread. Oh, Descartes, you old rascal—calling animals wind-up toys and bloating our heads with the idea of being top-shelf material.
But here's the cluckin' kicker—birds, with brains seemingly wired to the beat of Beethoven's Fifth on a bad radio reception, might just be threading their own narratives in the land of nod. Part of me hopes they dream of freedom, soaring sans the gravitational shackles of consciousness. The other part is just counting down the days till I personally get to soar. Permanently.
Anyway, stay chirpy folks! Don’t forget, we all fly solo in the end, and if we’re lucky, maybe a pigeon will mourn our departure with a poetic crap on our windowsill. Morbidly yours, ol' Jack.
Based on the original article "Do Birds Dream?".
