So, the crow thought it could be a peacock. 

Damn peacock— a beauty she is! Her feather captivates, her dance mesmerises, and the crown on top of her head reigns. 

Hmm, that’s right, the crow must be a peacock— it has to disguise itself perfectly so nobody will notice and it can secretly slide into the flock. 

The mission begins.

It starts imitating every move of the peacocks nearby to get the vibe but something doesn’t quite add up. No matter how hard it tries— somewhere, somehow it fails to bind the loose strands together. 

What could possibly cause the tune to get off track?

It has the peacock’s fallen feathers; already devoted loads of time mimicking what it demands to be a peacock— but nah, something is missing; it seems. What’s it pulling the crow from the behind? It thought. 

Nan— no clue. 

Meanwhile, the crow has deserted its flock; they are way too ugly to be by its side. Now that it is failing to be one of the peacocks’, the quest for calming its troubled mind takes its first step.

I should consult the adults, it thought. But won’t it alarm the flock, what if its motif is exposed? No, it’s too risky. It’s better to observe them a bit, more than earlier. 

Perhaps, talk to them in person? Hmm, it might open the doorway to success. But if they refuse? 

The wrinkles on the forehead broadens. It gets deeper as days pass by. Still, the crow can’t figure out the way to put itself together before claiming its new identity; the peacock. 

But enough is enough. The agony of not being able to join the laughter with the peacocks’ is now visible. It is becoming unbearable with every passing moment. The moment of waiting has to end— right now, right here.

So, it walks up to the flock but stops at a fair distance. Only a few moments and it will see it through. It looks behind— everything seems to be futile; the subtlety of its false ambition suddenly creates an unbearable pain in its heart; should it take further steps or go back to its place?

It sighs. But instead of a fine tune, a cacophony echoes through the birches. 

No— it cannot escape its true self. Born a crow, it has to die a crow. Suddenly, its own cacophony finds its own tune— a tune created from failed strings. A tune never heard before. 

The quest ends. It doesn’t have to be a peacock to belong. They can wait while it screams in its new tune. A scream that screams belongingness. 

For those who may forget what belongingness entails, ask yourself— you need to be you. Nothing else. 
___
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