Pigeons

I was trying my best to concentrate, but the pigeons surrounding the bench were continuously cooing, flapping their heavy wings so loudly it looked like they were swatting flies. Their thick grey feathers too tatty to blow in the wind sat chunkily on their rotund bodies, their undersides slumping down to the ground like beer guts.

Poor things I thought; what must life be like to be a pigeon? What could possibly make them happy? My thoughts veered back to my feet at this point, which were nervously tapping the ground like they were trying to drill a hole in it. I took a deep breath, followed by a long inhale on my cigarette, and tried to drift away. Is that what they say? Drift away? Sounds rather morbid to me.

It was early on a Sunday, and with no sign of life but the pigeons, I was still driving myself to madness. Every sound made me twitch, every shaped cloud seemed to taunt me, and every coo made me want to rip my hair out.

“Meditation” Dr Hollinski had said, “is key”. I remember him leaning over at this point to reach for his stethoscope, and my heart felt like it was about to burst. “What about medication?” I asked, but he simply shook his head. “It’s all in the mind”, and just like that, he raised two fingers and tapped them against his temples with a patronizing grin.

I left the surgery with two very different fingers raised against Dr Hollinski, but with resentment in every step towards the park, I took his advice, and here I was, sitting on a bench, away from all that could possibly raise my blood pressure. And I was thinking about pigeons.