Every little thing flies away. Sometimes it is hard to understand the true spirit, the unexpectedness of freedom, the instinct that urges to run away. To escape is to fly, but to escape is also to leave people who’ll still write notes on post-its, who’ll still hang on the telephone, who’ll still leave messages on answering machines. To run away is to stop looking back at all the people that might want to follow but cannot because their chains are way too strong. To run is to ignore the fact that one day you will not be able to stop or lower the pace.
Every little thing flies away. And how dare you try to stop them mighty eagles? Even if you once had that feeling, it is hard to watch it grow in someone else. That creeping, screeching howl that calls you to stop strutting. Even if you know what it’s like; even if you’ve been that ghost; even if you’ve lived the tears and the shakes. It is never the same, not when you will not get to fly with them.
Every little thing flies away. And there is no way of stopping them. There is not even a good reason. We are free men, says Conor. And for that freedom to take place, doves need not worry for the nest they are abandoning. “All four walls are a trophy case, but that doesn’t make it any less of a cage”.
And there is understanding, there is empathy, there is friendship doing all the works. Never can you hear a single word of dissagreement: there isn’t one. No judgement can be made on a free individual on wanting to walk, strut, jog, run or whatever the hell they want to do further away from home. We love them mighty eagles too much for that, and we want them to be wherever they want to be.
We understand. We get everything, but never really do. Yet there we are, each and every time. We cheer but only for the crowds. We are the ones left. Begging for the rain to stop, begging for every single beautiful thing in the world to stop flying away.