Once upon a time, there was an elegant, beautiful bird.
Its feathers shimmered with a pattern like a chessboard—symmetrical, mesmerizing, almost divine. It flew with grace, blessing the eyes of all who happened to gaze upon it.
"What is the point in living if you're always worrying about dying?" That was the feeling it gifted to those who watched it soar, laughing with the sky. It was free. Unchained. Even its dreams could not contain it.
It flew without effort. No weight. No doubts. No burdens. But then… its feathers began to shed. It didn't matter. To the world, the bird was still beautiful. Still flawless to everyone, except one.
A single, black feather remained. An imperfection. A mistake. A whisper of some long-past genetic hiccup. What if the bird had shed all its black feathers? What if this one, this lone feather, had simply fallen too?
Then maybe… maybe the bird would still be perfect. "It's ugly because of me. I'm the reason this bird is no longer beautiful." That was the thought that haunted the black feather.
Should it let go and fall, freeing the bird from its flaw? Or should it accept the bird's beauty, despite itself? The feather chose neither.
It chose effort. It chose to work harder than any other feather—desperately, feverishly—just to matter. To be useful. To prove that it had a purpose for staying, when the others were gone.
There was only one reason it was still here. To help the bird fly. To fix it. And if it couldn't… then what was the point of still being here at all?
So it worked. Harder. And harder. Until the bird broke. It crashed—body aching, wings still, sky silent. The world stopped. And for the first time in forever, the feather had nothing to do but think.
Think about what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Its entire purpose was to help the bird soar. And now the bird couldn't fly. So what was the point?
In the emptiness, something twisted. The feather blamed the bird. It's the bird's fault I'm suffering like this. If it had just let me go… If it hadn't shed the others… I wouldn't be alone. I wouldn't have to work this hard. I wouldn't be in pain.
It hated the bird. But time passed. And one day, the bird took flight again. And the feather? It didn't help. It didn't try. It just floated—drifting lazily with the motion of the bird's wings. It had stopped fighting. Stopped caring. There was nothing left but the hollow shape of survival.
Then, a thought broke through: "How is the bird flying? I gave up." And for the first time in its life, the feather looked around.
Not at how it was different from the white feathers—but at how they worked together to keep the bird aloft. And in that moment, it understood. It had never wanted to help the bird. It wanted to justify itself.
It wasn't about love or loyalty. It was about validation. About proving its differences had meaning. But on that bright, gentle day, the feather finally understood something simple and soft.
The bird doesn't fly because of reason. It flies because it is perceived as something worth flying. The bird is beautiful because of perception, not because of its pattern.