After washing himself on a dining room chair, the well-fed cat delicately rested his head on the tip of his tail and fell asleep. Standing by the window, sipping my coffee, I gaze out at the horizon.
Spring is taking over the world. Day by day, the lush greenery nibbles away, leaf by leaf, at the blue of the sky and the distant coastline. The shore has almost vanished from the panorama. Now, only a small patch of sea and a few scattered rooftops remain.
The 7:22 seagull is right on time. On the final meters, as usual, he slows down with a loud rustle of wings before landing majestically on the windowsill. Happy, I open the window panes, greet him, and bestow upon him a: “How’s it going, buddy? Sleep well?”, to which he replies with his classic: “Pa! Pa! Pa!”, which I interpret that day as: “Yes, thanks, and you?”.
I love this morning rendezvous. The two of us have been seeing each other for a long time now. He’s no longer afraid of me. While he pecks at the cat kibble set out on a plate, I chat with him like an old friend returning from a long and distant journey, asking him about all the places he has visited around the world.
Pausing now and then, my favorite jackhammer looks at me, moving his eyes and neck. Now, he slakes his thirst from the plastic container full of fresh water, taking greedy, large gulps that he sends down by raising his neck.
Then he waits and inspects me in turn. I love the black-and-white patterns drawn on the tips of his wings and his intelligent, round, yellow eyes, encircled in bright orange, behind which lie breathtakingly beautiful landscapes as well as feelings of lightness and intense freedom that I envy him for.
I tell him: “Wait, don’t go just yet!”, and run to open the sideboard door to pull out a half-empty package of butter biscuits. Back at the window, I break off a first piece and offer it to him. As always, with great dexterity, he snatches it without ever touching my fingers and immediately gulps it down. Others soon join him until, sated, he turns up his nose at a new piece, which I end up nibbling on myself.
Usually, at that moment, after granting me one last “Pa! Pa! Pa!”, he takes off, leaving me alone and sorrowful, watching him fly away into the sky until, from a ‘V’, he transforms into a final period.
But today, strangely, he continues his inspection with a look I’ve never seen on him before. Taken aback, not quite knowing what to do, I ask him: “I gave you kibble, biscuits. You’ve drunk your fill. What more do you want? A bit of bread, maybe?”. Off again to rummage through the sideboard, I bring back a slice of sandwich bread, cut off a piece, and offer it to him... And right there, for the very first time, his beak clamps down on my index and middle fingers. I scream, but strangely, though I feel the firm pressure of his beak, I feel no pain. As he releases my fingers, I shrink, my glasses fall off, and I see the windowsill recede above my head at high speed, finding myself down at coffee-table level. Shedding my way-too-large clothes, a wave of intense heat invades my bare body, my heart starts beating much faster, my skin dries up, my arms grow while my hands vanish, my nose and lower jaw lengthen and turn shades of yellow and orange, while my legs grow thinner and turn yellow too. My feet shrink, four toes disappear, and the remaining ones round out, lengthen, and become webbed. My vision changes—everything is far more beautiful, colorful, and detailed—but a strange sensation appears: something is pushing from the inside out. I then look at my skin, pierced on all sides by feathers, some white, some gray. I am a seagull.
Frightened and startled, I get flustered and flap my arms (or rather, my wings), which causes me to take off; without understanding how, I find myself right in front of 7:22, who instantly lets out a “Pa! Pa! Pa!” that this time I don’t need to interpret... because I understand everything—the calls, the head tilts, the eye rolls, and even the thoughts are now familiar to me.
“Don’t go scaring me like that!”
“Hey, seagull, are you the one responsible for this?”
“The seagull?!... You don’t call me 7:22 anymore?!”
“Well, what is your real name, anyway?”
“Jonathan!... Nah, just kidding!” he replies before bursting into a loud laugh: “Pa! Pa! Pa!”. “In your mother tongue, my name would be: He Who Plays and Laughs with the Wind.”
“A bit too long for my taste. If it’s all the same to you, let’s stick to 7:22. Hey, by the way, how come we understand each other so well without even opening our beaks?”
“Intuitive communication!”
“Intuitive communication?!”
“Yep! Telepathy, if you like! All animals have that ability.”
“Humans don’t?!”
“You used to, a long time ago... But you cut yourselves off from nature and developed language and your left hemisphere in the process, to the detriment of the right... In doing so, you lost a good chunk of your animal nature and your intuition.”
“Not wrong there!... But why did you turn me into a seagull? Because it was you who turned me into a seagull, right?!”
“Every single day God makes, you ask me where I come from, what I’ve seen, what it feels like up there in the blue... and I can feel your frustration that I can’t answer you. Since you’ve been feeding me for years and I think you’re a pretty nice guy, I thought the best thing would be for you to experience it for yourself. So, I’m giving you this dream... Right, now let’s go! The world is waiting for us,” says 7:22, flying off the window.
I look down and, strangely enough—having always suffered from vertigo—I don't feel it anymore. I inhale the crisp air of the wind through the two nostrils of my beak and leap after him. Immediately, I feel a sharp jab in my tail accompanied by a quick sting on my skin as an aggressive meow rings out. Ah! I’d forgotten about that one!
Two feathers short. I laugh, thinking: Darn it, a brand-new suit and my cat ruins it!
7:22, overhearing my thought, replies:
“Well, yeah, that’s the price of fame, the flip side of the coin, my friend! Now do you see why we’re so skittish?!... Those jealous crawlers can’t stand that we fly, and they never miss a chance to drag us down.”
We gain altitude, heading toward the coast, which looks so magnificent on the horizon. I’m at 7:22’s six o'clock position, slightly offset to the right. Even though the seagull’s instinct is inside me, he’s more experienced than I am, so I prefer to mimic and follow him. He’s my leader.
What a joy to bask in this palette of colors and details, in the mosaic of a scenery I could never have seen without climbing into a noisy steel carcass. Here, I am one with the landscape and the wind. What we feel is completely indescribable. Beneath our feathers, drunk on beauty, joy, and warmth, 7:22 and I write and draw our freedom in the sky. He initiates a turn, and I laugh once more, thinking of Top Gun... Break right, break right!
“So Jehan, does that blow your mind or what?!” 7:22 says to me.
“You bet! I love it! Even in my wildest dreams, I’ve never felt such a sensation... But by the way, how long am I going to stay a seagull?”
“That’s funny!” he replies mockingly. “When you were a man, I thought you were a strange bird... Now you’re a strange man for asking me that question. You’ve been one of us for barely five minutes, and already you regret your down-to-earth condition.”
“No, no, 7:22! I don’t regret it at all. You know, I was just wondering!... Hasn’t anyone ever told you that men of the cloth—or of the quill—are a curious bunch?”
Actually, I’m lying a little... I abandoned a beloved home, cat, and vegetable patch for a superb dream. 7:22 must have seen those images flash through my mind, hence his remark.
“You’ll be a seagull for as long as you want to be... Dream of being a man, and you’ll turn back into one right away!”
After washing himself on a dining room chair, the well-fed cat delicately rested his head on the tip of his tail and fell asleep. Standing by the window, sipping my coffee, I gaze out at the horizon.
Spring is taking over the world. Day by day, the lush greenery nibbles away, leaf by leaf, at the blue of the sky and the distant coastline. The shore has almost vanished from the panorama. Now, only a small patch of sea and a few scattered rooftops remain.
The 7:22 seagull is right on time. On the final meters, as usual, he slows down with a loud rustle of wings before landing majestically on the windowsill. Happy, I open the window panes, greet him, and bestow upon him a: “How’s it going, buddy? Sleep well?”, to which he replies with his classic: “Pa! Pa! Pa!”, which I interpret that day as: “Yes, thanks, and you?”.
I love this morning rendezvous. The two of us have been seeing each other for a long time now. He’s no longer afraid of me. While he pecks at the cat kibble set out on a plate, I chat with him like an old friend returning from a long and distant journey, asking him about all the places he has visited around the world.
Pausing now and then, my favorite jackhammer looks at me, moving his eyes and neck. Now, he slakes his thirst from the plastic container full of fresh water, taking greedy, large gulps that he sends down by raising his neck.
Then he waits and inspects me in turn. I love the black-and-white patterns drawn on the tips of his wings and his intelligent, round, yellow eyes, encircled in bright orange, behind which lie breathtakingly beautiful landscapes as well as feelings of lightness and intense freedom that I envy him for.
I tell him: “Wait, don’t go just yet!”, and run to open the sideboard door to pull out a half-empty package of butter biscuits. Back at the window, I break off a first piece and offer it to him. As always, with great dexterity, he snatches it without ever touching my fingers and immediately gulps it down. Others soon join him until, sated, he turns up his nose at a new piece, which I end up nibbling on myself.
Usually, at that moment, after granting me one last “Pa! Pa! Pa!”, he takes off, leaving me alone and sorrowful, watching him fly away into the sky until, from a ‘V’, he transforms into a final period.
But today, strangely, he continues his inspection with a look I’ve never seen on him before. Taken aback, not quite knowing what to do, I ask him: “I gave you kibble, biscuits. You’ve drunk your fill. What more do you want? A bit of bread, maybe?”. Off again to rummage through the sideboard, I bring back a slice of sandwich bread, cut off a piece, and offer it to him... And right there, for the very first time, his beak clamps down on my index and middle fingers. I scream, but strangely, though I feel the firm pressure of his beak, I feel no pain. As he releases my fingers, I shrink, my glasses fall off, and I see the windowsill recede above my head at high speed, finding myself down at coffee-table level. Shedding my way-too-large clothes, a wave of intense heat invades my bare body, my heart starts beating much faster, my skin dries up, my arms grow while my hands vanish, my nose and lower jaw lengthen and turn shades of yellow and orange, while my legs grow thinner and turn yellow too. My feet shrink, four toes disappear, and the remaining ones round out, lengthen, and become webbed. My vision changes—everything is far more beautiful, colorful, and detailed—but a strange sensation appears: something is pushing from the inside out. I then look at my skin, pierced on all sides by feathers, some white, some gray. I am a seagull.
Frightened and startled, I get flustered and flap my arms (or rather, my wings), which causes me to take off; without understanding how, I find myself right in front of 7:22, who instantly lets out a “Pa! Pa! Pa!” that this time I don’t need to interpret... because I understand everything—the calls, the head tilts, the eye rolls, and even the thoughts are now familiar to me.
“Don’t go scaring me like that!”
“Hey, seagull, are you the one responsible for this?”
“The seagull?!... You don’t call me 7:22 anymore?!”
“Well, what is your real name, anyway?”
“Jonathan!... Nah, just kidding!” he replies before bursting into a loud laugh: “Pa! Pa! Pa!”. “In your mother tongue, my name would be: He Who Plays and Laughs with the Wind.”
“A bit too long for my taste. If it’s all the same to you, let’s stick to 7:22. Hey, by the way, how come we understand each other so well without even opening our beaks?”
“Intuitive communication!”
“Intuitive communication?!”
“Yep! Telepathy, if you like! All animals have that ability.”
“Humans don’t?!”
“You used to, a long time ago... But you cut yourselves off from nature and developed language and your left hemisphere in the process, to the detriment of the right... In doing so, you lost a good chunk of your animal nature and your intuition.”
“Not wrong there!... But why did you turn me into a seagull? Because it was you who turned me into a seagull, right?!”
“Every single day God makes, you ask me where I come from, what I’ve seen, what it feels like up there in the blue... and I can feel your frustration that I can’t answer you. Since you’ve been feeding me for years and I think you’re a pretty nice guy, I thought the best thing would be for you to experience it for yourself. So, I’m giving you this dream... Right, now let’s go! The world is waiting for us,” says 7:22, flying off the window.
I look down and, strangely enough—having always suffered from vertigo—I don't feel it anymore. I inhale the crisp air of the wind through the two nostrils of my beak and leap after him. Immediately, I feel a sharp jab in my tail accompanied by a quick sting on my skin as an aggressive meow rings out. Ah! I’d forgotten about that one!
Two feathers short. I laugh, thinking: Darn it, a brand-new suit and my cat ruins it!
7:22, overhearing my thought, replies:
“Well, yeah, that’s the price of fame, the flip side of the coin, my friend! Now do you see why we’re so skittish?!... Those jealous crawlers can’t stand that we fly, and they never miss a chance to drag us down.”
We gain altitude, heading toward the coast, which looks so magnificent on the horizon. I’m at 7:22’s six o'clock position, slightly offset to the right. Even though the seagull’s instinct is inside me, he’s more experienced than I am, so I prefer to mimic and follow him. He’s my leader.
What a joy to bask in this palette of colors and details, in the mosaic of a scenery I could never have seen without climbing into a noisy steel carcass. Here, I am one with the landscape and the wind. What we feel is completely indescribable. Beneath our feathers, drunk on beauty, joy, and warmth, 7:22 and I write and draw our freedom in the sky. He initiates a turn, and I laugh once more, thinking of Top Gun... Break right, break right!
“So Jehan, does that blow your mind or what?!” 7:22 says to me.
“You bet! I love it! Even in my wildest dreams, I’ve never felt such a sensation... But by the way, how long am I going to stay a seagull?”
“That’s funny!” he replies mockingly. “When you were a man, I thought you were a strange bird... Now you’re a strange man for asking me that question. You’ve been one of us for barely five minutes, and already you regret your down-to-earth condition.”
“No, no, 7:22! I don’t regret it at all. You know, I was just wondering!... Hasn’t anyone ever told you that men of the cloth—or of the quill—are a curious bunch?”
Actually, I’m lying a little... I abandoned a beloved home, cat, and vegetable patch for a superb dream. 7:22 must have seen those images flash through my mind, hence his remark.
“You’ll be a seagull for as long as you want to be... Dream of being a man, and you’ll turn back into one right away!”
“Uh, maybe I’ll avoid doing that right now?!” I say, looking down at the rocks of the jetty two hundred meters below.
“That choice is yours, rookie. I gave it to you. Up to you to decide!... As for me, I’m off to join the squad,” he says, veering abruptly to the left.
I hesitate for a split second... then veer in turn, shouting with all my might: “Pa! Pa! Pa!”...
“Uh, maybe I’ll avoid doing that right now?!” I say, looking down at the rocks of the jetty two hundred meters below.
“That choice is yours, rookie. I gave it to you. Up to you to decide!... As for me, I’m off to join the squad,” he says, veering abruptly to the left.
I hesitate for a split second... then veer in turn, shouting with all my might: “Pa! Pa! Pa!”...
THE END
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