Obviously inspired by the email…
It is the nature of chickens to cross the road.
Imagine all the chickens in the world crossing roads together, in peace.
To die in the rain. Alone.
In my day we didn’t ask why the chicken crossed the road. Somebody told us the chicken crossed the road, and that was good enough.
Did the chicken really cross the road, or did the road move beneath the chicken?
The chicken crossed the road because its entire life that chicken had felt a vague feeling of uneasiness or doubt. That chicken felt as if something was not right. As if that chicken was not where it was supposed to be. That perhaps that chicken was not made to stay on one side of the road, but rather was meant to wander, to leave, to find new places. New sides of roads yes, but not just that. New roads themselves. New places to cross and ways to cross over. So the chicken crossed the road without any real reason or intension, without any concrete reasons why or why not, because the chicken simply knew that it had to cross the road. That it had no other choice. That if the chicken didn’t cross the road at that very moment it would go through the rest of its life wondering what if.
What if it had ascended from the drudgery of everyday industry filled as it is with the thoughts of baser minds, to rise above it all to new heights of thought and experience? What if that chicken had crossed over to find fresher and more pliable, bendable, flexible forms of knowledge? The kind of knowledge that grows with it. That is a living, changing thing. The kind of knowledge that is not a burden, that does not weigh the chicken down. But rather gives it wings. The chicken, a silly stupid bird who is not even made for flight. A bird who has no real business wanting or needing the things that it does. Whose very construction, the science that holds it together, also holds it down.
What if, despite all that, the chicken’s wanting and needing was still there? And there was also this possibility… the possibility of a knowledge that allowed that chicken not only to cross over that road but to fly over it? To float above it all? In a swift rush of faith and feathers and wings so small and insignificant that it all, all of it, seemed so impossible, so unconceivable. What if that chicken really could fly? What if all that chicken had to do was take a few slight steps and it would be forever plunged into that wonderfully tremendous world some people like to call the future and others just call the unknown?
That is why the chicken crossed the road. Because it thought, it felt, it knew somehow deep within its sad sullen barely beating little chicken heart, its barely living little chicken body, that there on the other side of the road there were things, or perhaps just the possibility of things, that surpassed the imaginings of one small chicken’s mind. That went beyond it. That kept going. That did not stop. That went on and on and on and on…