executors

At noon at noon, the sun ruthlessly roasting the balcony tiles. The air is shaking from the heat.

Garbage scoop in hand. I use it to push through the concrete what is a monument to perseverance. A chaotic pile of dry twigs. Each of them is brought separately, with hope. The plastic of the scoop scratches through the concrete. The sound is short, dry. Everything falls apart. The balcony becomes clean again. Sterile. And empty.

I retreat behind the glass. To the coolness of the kitchen.

A minute later they come back. Not on the roof next door. Right here. On my balcony railing. Two gray silhouettes, within a meter of me. Only the window glass, cool from the air conditioner, separates us. Their eyes, small, dark beads, meet mine. Pause. They stopped being afraid of me. And this is the worst.

This glass - like a space between the stage and the theater audience - turned me into an observer of their lives. I watched the spring rain whip their feathers against their bodies, turning them into pitiful, quivering balls. I saw them clinging to each other through the wind, seeking the warmth I constantly inhabit. And once, in the twilight, I saw them sleeping. Heads tucked under wings. Absolute, stupid trust in the world. my world

Their barking is the first sound in the morning. A low-frequency vibration that comes not from the outside, but from memory. A reminder of their monogamous epic set on my balcony. About loyalty and hope.

And about me. The villain of that epic. A god-destroyer who watches his victims up close, through glass, while sipping coffee. Who knows what their fear and their peace look like. And still continues its sterile little war.

They will start bearing branches again. I'll throw them out again. This cycle is absurd, but it's the only one we have.

I stand, I wave my hands again trying to chase them away, I see that they are tired, I understand that I am not actually sleeping for them, but rather for myself. Because I have to do what I have to do, just like they have to spin the nest.

They don't cross. We get stuck in that mutual paralysis. This balcony is not mine. These branches are not theirs. Everything is just a script.

And we are just executors. Doomed to read lines from the same invisible sheet.

True, sometimes a miracle happens. The moment of vision.

Bet ji on trump.

We are unable to record anything of our own.