One solitary flight-the diary of a seagull

Dear diary,

The city at this particular time of the year seems rather still. After a long frozen winter I
managed to remain quite fat. Besides food I turned out to be the quite talented relationship
consumer. Don’t think garbage, although that could be rather wanted on this frosty prairie,
think medicine students or young people generally. Frustrated? How can I?
My mother always told me that I could someday flourish beautifully into a gentleman but not
a ladies’ man. That’s how she explained to me my precocious marriage –honeybunn, to be sure.
However, it’s been years since, now I’m just contempt with the fact that simple matters are always those that move indifferent lifetime events. Today I get the pretzel crumbs for the show , the humans manifest a strange crossing-over of beaks and time passes by conveniently. At least the world doesn’t lack of dandies.
Family? Always complaining about the fact that there is not enough trout. It's always about the trout with them. If life happens it’s always the lack of trouts’ fault. How can you explain the unexplainable? That’s why I started looking much more often at my powerful shriveling wings, wondering how far they could get me. Life is just one prosy garbage, again, I’m not hungry ,I’m just hearty.
I could give an eye for one more young afternoon spend in the company of the unabashed and gracious female Mallards ,they’re such inaccessible creatures.
Don’t mind my lustful tone, I’m just a failure ,but strangely enough there’s no frustration in that. I had all the occasions to be an asshole, instead of doing that, I got married.

The departure
I’m not running away, they just don’t want me around. After my unexpected meeting with our gull chief they politely told me so. I am old and useless. We politely agreed upon the gentlemen’s retirement.
France was their only option. After giving me some references I could not understand because they have spoken without using any pauses, we politely wished our best.
On my way home, I started to think about my family. The gull code doesn’t allow during retirement any travel partners. You’re basically on your own while they try to marry your wife with somebody more accountable. You might say I’ll be okay after returning home, but is there any palpable return we should speak of? Changing the subject, France is not a relief. The Great Lakes would have been, but then again, life doesn't always give you salmons. Tuna isn't such a bad start either.

The Italy
I have arrived in the worst case scenario ever. Thousands of pigeons pecking me away
from their food. Gull-Lord, please kill all the pigeons and serve them for breakfast to the Italian gourmets. I feel quite lonely down here. According to my plans, I must find a place to sleep and leave tommorrow after dusk to reach the destination.
Traveling alone is a pain in the tail and so much more. You have no one to share ideas except yourself. Knowing that you’re boring, doesn’t boost the spree of introspective conversation either. I've drunk a little too much from a Leffe glass someone left on the terrace and it’s funny because I can’t focus the Millan dome. Everything seems excessively kineshesic for the moment. Good evening temporary nest. To be clear. I am not drunk. As I practice bedding on the cool rock of an important construction as I’ve heard, my wings start becoming my worst enemy. The one you know it’s there but can’t see. That’s how I stare at them and mentally challenge them to move. They just won’t listen. Probably, it’s the beers’ fault that everything in this feathery shield seems so dead. Strangely though how death chooses to speak throughout the crippled.


The France-part one

Parlevous francais? Excuse me? Parlevous francais? I am not deaf you idiot, I don’t parlare francais!
How can you send a gull in France without teaching him French? Great start. I am sitting on a fountain in the middle of nowhere looking at the stupid French speaking pigeons! I don’t know if I’m dead and this is hell, but it’s surely hot down here. My wings still hurt that’s why I’ve decided flying was not an option for the moment. Judging from the parlare guy, here is France, I don’t understand a single word and French fountain water is excellent.
Hello? You idiots understand English? Guessing from the adorable apish looks, there’s no illuminate idiot around to point out directions. Whither?
By the way, I forgot to tell you, here , humans play some other different kind of games, pretzels are overrated. Croissants are hip.

The France-part two

She told me that my French is horrible. Her coarse annoying voice plays over and over again in my narrow mind like a sharp knife trying to blunt the terrible desperation. I am acting like a painful uncomfortable pensioner. Walking besides her is fulminalty challenging. I feel like a quiescent museum hanging there just knotted by a reason I could not explain. Her name is Marla, she’s a rock singer and a single mother that picked me up after my callous speech at the fountain. We walked and it was abominable. I guess it wasn’t a beer that pierced my force but a dozen rose spikes that caused invisible bleeding all over.
Pity was the only feeling I didn’t need so I acted playfully and skilled like a teenager. She bought it and came along telling me about her friends, how she decided to leave hehr life because it made no sense and took everything from the beginning without any help, shelter and food. Strangely as it may seem, she’s quite young and fragile at a first peek but speaking from the inside, while tying up the broken strings you witness a desolated view. Gulls come to life from different experiences, as long as their still viable. Today we’ve managed to reach the shore, the breeze stroke my pain and numbed it like an efficient medicine. Strangely I reminiscent my old pals, the medicine students.

The France –part three
Never before I’ve been put up with emotional situations. One question though that obsesses me from a point in time. Do gulls cry?
There’s no human activity over the rocky steep ferocious view that stands at my tourmented body. Marla went fishing. Somewhere down, there’s a bustle of beings staring at her because she’s marvelous. Without words I see her grace floating like a feather above the sea. I feel water crumbling down from my head. It’s the rains’ attitude towards terminal depression. My vision starts trembling for one minute and the wind produces a strange change of roles. There, in the deep of the deepest game of waves lies the most doubtless, confident and fearless character I have ever imagined, myself through the vision of the best architect the gulls described. It is here, on this trivial piece of rock that I feel just for a glimpse like an eagle between the gulls . I could have loved females like Marla with courageous and innocent perspectives, wander the crowded streets of Italy with bohemian friends in search for half-empty bottles , peck the wonderful lime that coats the narrow walls of my compelling France. Instead of doing that, I dedicated my happiness to the irrelevant needs of my dearest. And for what price?
The price of my freedom. Yet I come alone in this dreadful life with the fake feeling this will finish agreeable. So it does.