A bird was lying on the street, and still moving

A bird was lying on the street, and it was still moving. It was the inflatable chicken of Eva Chicken, the restaurant opposite central station. It is one of those inflatable things, with a wing that keeps beckoning you as air blows through it. It is there to lure in people strolling by. I can see the chicken from the tram when I travel to the university.

One day, the chicken fell and landed face down on the ground. It was still moving its arm, pulling itself a small distance across the boulevard with each swipe. This is how it slowly crawled between the tables.

As a child, I once saw a pigeon run over by a car. It disappeared completely under the wheel in a cloud of feathers. It flew a few more metres, but then fell to the ground again, only to drag itself away and crawl underneath a hedge. I remember being relieved that it had not been instantly torn apart by the car. I walked back to the hedge later, but I did not see it again. I kept thinking about that pigeon for a long time.

The pigeon had once been alive, and now it was dead. Eva Chicken’s chicken has never lived, but it feels more alive to me than ever now that I have seen it crawling on the ground. The fact that the chicken doesn’t give up even when hardly anyone gives it a second look. The move it normally uses to cheerfully draw people in now seemed to have become its swan song. I helplessly watched it convulse as passers-by went about their day between us. It feels painfully human to keep struggling in a vulnerable situation, through repetitive, pointless effort.

Lately, I sometimes feel like the chicken I have come to refer to as Eva. Lots of face-down-to-the-ground moments. Especially in the quiet study spaces of the library, when I watch the sun go down. I get overwhelmed by thesis stress and have to drag myself home. Fortunately, I have friends around me who can help me get back on my feet.

Eva also has people looking out for her. On the way back, she waved at me again.