The duck knows where the lake is

... Inside me lives a mischievous type, a goblin. He would love my whole life to be pirouettes. To balance outside of mind and law, to violate schedules and fertilize eggs, to disregard the consequences of my actions - as if those who measure and remeasure them ever find any resolution; do they ever escape the randomness and transience of existence? To feel moments like notes, to obey only my internal rhythm... Inside me, that little kid who constantly caused trouble, who stuck out his tongue at everyone, whose world was a blank canvas, sometimes drawing on it, sometimes scribbling, sometimes setting it on fire, insists on jumping around... I admire those who set out for the kiosk and find themselves on the other side of the world. Those who feel at home everywhere, the bird-like people. I am a tree. Can a bird become a tree, or a tree a bird? What can you hope for as a tree? To refresh those who rest in your shade. To be preferred by birds for building their nests. For squirrels and little foxes to enjoy your fruits. Above all, when the wind rises, to have your foliage swell like a ship‘s sails, even though your roots keep you in the same place. To turn the air into music, and for your music to reach places you will never be. "The tree is singing again..." they will say.