Every morning, luminous birds appear at my window. Their jubilant songs illuminate my room like rays of sunlight, displacing the darkness back to its hidden corner. All the inhabitants of my dreams are secluded in the dream reflection of my vivid reality.
My eyes adjust to the light as my logical mind battles to discern if the nightmares were just a figment of my imagination. Yes there were people who actually visited me last night. If the events I witnessed were indeed a harbinger of the future. And if the fears embodied in beasts that pursued me were, indeed, real.
But it doesn't matter anymore, my obligations lead me to a mechanized state in order to accomplish my ordinary duties. Soon the affairs of the night have been forgotten, replaced by the endless cycle of seeing, thinking, processing, acting and producing.
A product arrives on the conveyor belt: a book, an appliance, makeup, or clothing, literally anything. I evaluate the dimensions and choose the correct box size. I cut it, adapt it, glue it, seal it with tape and finally stamp the decal with the destination. The wonders of the timing chain, I say to myself, imagining the distant and even exotic destinations to which all these packages must fly or ship. And my mind travels with the ridiculous ideas of packing myself up and sending me to one of those addresses that the computer instructs me to. What would the receiver think when he opened the box and found me inside? Gonna? Surprise? Delight? Would you fill out a return merchandise order with the company? … maybe.
I calm my restless mind by looking around, finding myself surrounded by endless lines of shelves that resemble tall buildings with narrow streets, congested with forklift traffic. The inhabitants of this city are products waiting to be shipped. Hoping to abandon the totality of the masses for the tranquility of individuality. Waiting to stop being just another number on an extensive list and become the only.
The conveyor belt finally stops, granting me peace to enjoy my lunch. I spread out on the floor eating my ham and olive sandwich while looking at the window at the top of the wall. The small window only shows a hint of the blue sky. I cut a piece of paper and fold it into the shape of an airplane, and then I throw it into the air with the vague hope that it will make it to the window but it crashes against the wall a few meters below.
I fold another piece of paper into a new plane, more robust and aerodynamically superior to the previous one, but my new attempt hits the wall at the correct height but loaded to the left, far from the window.
But even failure produces satisfaction—satisfaction brought by memories.
I see my seven year old self, playing with my older brother with the same paper airplanes, pushing our imaginations to create the perfect airplane as if we could ride it and it would take us away to one of those places we imagined we would visit. But I realize that back then we had the same problems as today, but my brother came up with a brilliant solution, "the problem is that airplanes use up their fuel, that's why they fall, but a bird is going to fly forever as long as he has the will to fly,” he said, and from that moment on we only made origami cranes that he had learned to make in school.
I take the rest of the sheet of paper and create two origami cranes as best I can. And before I return to work, I make sure no one is watching, climb a shelf next to the window, and reach out to deposit both birds on the window frame, hoping they can find their way back home.
Then I return to the conveyor belt to continue packing the dreams of a million people.
M. Ch. Landa
