[wedne] we all know this story (backdated)
Once upon a time, there was a little bird.
The bird could not fly very fast or far and its feathers were not very sleek or bright, but its voice was the treasure of the forest. Day in and day out, the little bird would flit through the branches of the forest, singing solace to all the animals below and day in and day out they would praise their little bird.
"You are so kind, little bird!" is what they would call out as it passed. "So kind and generous and loving! We cannot think what we would do without you!"
As the animals below lauded its singing with cheer, the little bird sang even louder and higher and brighter each time it made its rounds through the forest, for it was gladdened that it could help even in this small, inconsequential way. Without a care, the bird sang more and more until one day it sang at its very loudest and highest and brightest and just as it reached the very best, most beautiful note of its song, something inside the little bird shattered.
And the little bird's voice was gone.
Without flight or feathers or song, the little bird was not much of a bird anymore. The animals knew this. Perched on a branch in the suddenly silent forest, the little bird watched as they left, one by one.
Shivering in the chill silence of the forest, the little bird whispered,"I am lonely."
But no one answered.
The bird could not fly very fast or far and its feathers were not very sleek or bright, but its voice was the treasure of the forest. Day in and day out, the little bird would flit through the branches of the forest, singing solace to all the animals below and day in and day out they would praise their little bird.
"You are so kind, little bird!" is what they would call out as it passed. "So kind and generous and loving! We cannot think what we would do without you!"
As the animals below lauded its singing with cheer, the little bird sang even louder and higher and brighter each time it made its rounds through the forest, for it was gladdened that it could help even in this small, inconsequential way. Without a care, the bird sang more and more until one day it sang at its very loudest and highest and brightest and just as it reached the very best, most beautiful note of its song, something inside the little bird shattered.
And the little bird's voice was gone.
Without flight or feathers or song, the little bird was not much of a bird anymore. The animals knew this. Perched on a branch in the suddenly silent forest, the little bird watched as they left, one by one.
Shivering in the chill silence of the forest, the little bird whispered,"I am lonely."
But no one answered.