I’m reading about turkeys right now and somewhere in the back of my mind, I keep thinking that I’m thankful to be born a person and not a bird, despite the coolness behind flying and Rachel McAdams romanticizing the whole thing in The Notebook.
But would I really know to be grateful for not being born anything but what I was? What is life like for a bird? Or any animal for that matter? What’s the concept of time like? I imagine it’s vastly shorter or longer than what we’re used to and certainly not driven by phone alerts or calendars or appointments. Sometimes I wonder if animals think we’re all crazy. We go through the world, putting up rules and limitations everywhere that keep ourselves from being free, buying endless amounts of things to surround ourselves with, overthinking and overanalyzing every situation under the sun until we reach a breaking point and see someone to make sense of it all.
Maybe they’re just as crazy as we are, but we’ll never know it. Who knows. The birds may have their own version of the glass ceiling.
I almost posted this on Facebook, but thought better of it. Especially after that last sentence I just wrote that started off with “the birds may” which sounds juuuuuust a tad like it’s heading down the merry Tony Soprano and the ducks lane…