Reading In Reverse

The crow and the paint

There is a still black crow perched on the highest roof of my brown house, above my opened paned windows. He has been there for a while now. Never moving, always watching. It's become a habit of ours, every morning he watches me, leading a conventional life. Leaving no mark on this world, he sits there. He does not judge, he does not comment, but most importantly, he does not leave. He sits there patiently waiting, for what, I don't know. It must be of the spectacular sort if he is willing to succumb to boredom alongside me as the world revolves around us. 

Perhaps he isn't bored. Maybe he keeps himself occupied, counting the cars that go by, watching the numerous crowds of people as they go by, getting on with their lives. Some leading extraordinary lives. I love that word, one single change to the word and you end up with the complete opposite. Extraordinary, a word meaning beyond the normal boundaries one may be accustomed to. But add a small space between the gaps of the a and o, and you get extra ordinary.  A word describing my still, non-eventful life, boring life. The same daily routine over and over and over again. Repetitive is another word I would use. Living inside my four gray walls,  no posters, no decorations, nothing to see or to describe. I can only see gray. Not that I'm color blind, yet I'm not extraordinary or deserving of such things.

That changed this morning. As I was leaving my house, the crow had made himself a friend. There were two of them now. Just as still and just as patient. Sitting next to each other, waiting for something extraordinary, no space. Never any space. It's just not the word I would use to describe them. 

The next morning, as impossible as it may seem, a third friend, perched on my mailbox. The morning after, on the roof of my car. The week seemed to prolonge, more and more friends arrived. All black, still, and patient. Maybe I'm losing my mind, they could be hallucinations my subconscious mind has made up to keep itself from boredom. However, this morning was different, unlike anything I've ever seen or thought possibly imaginable. I walk down the 12 steps from the upper floor of my house and sit in my living room with my black coffee as one does to wake themselves up. 

My windows all open, the first crow flies in. He shatters into the wall to my right, splattering blue blood everywhere. I take a deep inhale. Shocking me to my core. Right down to the edges of my bronchioles. The next crow flies into the wall to my left. Purple splatters my couch. This time they all fly in at once. Shattering their black bodies in my living room. My house becoming a canvas for the flying animals of the outside. But I can finally see color. Have I become the extraordinary? Am I now deserving of this majestic beauty?