I wake up to the sound of birds arguing outside my window. Their chatter grates against my skull like dull knives scraping bone. I pull the pillow over my head, but their squabbles pierce through cotton and feather, relentless. Another day begins.
In the alley below, a cacophony of horns and shouts rises with the sun. The city is a throbbing wound, festering with life. I stumble to the bathroom, the mirror reflecting a face I barely recognize. Eyes bloodshot, stubble creeping across a jawline that’s seen better days. I splash water on my face, but it does nothing to wash away the exhaustion clinging to my skin.
The manuscript sits on my desk, mocking me with its unfinished sentences and half-baked ideas. “The Flight,” I’ve tentatively titled it. A grand allegory of the human condition, or so I tell myself. Pages stained with coffee rings and the ashes of too many cigarettes.
I light another one, inhaling deeply as if the smoke could fill the void inside. The birds outside continue their incessant debate. I wonder what they could possibly be arguing about with such fervor.
My mind drifts back to the poem that’s been haunting me — Attar’s “The Conference of the Birds.” A Sufi masterpiece, a journey of souls seeking enlightenment. Thirty birds set out to find their king, the mythical Simorgh, only to discover that they themselves are what they seek. Unity of existence, self-realization—all that philosophical grandeur wrapped in poetic verse.
But who has the time for enlightenment these days? We’re all just trying to survive, stumbling through the detritus of our own making. I glance at the news feed flashing on my laptop screen. Wars, pandemics, political theater masquerading as governance. The world is unraveling, and here I am, trying to write a modern retelling of a 12th-century poem. Maybe I’m the fool here.
I push the laptop aside and rub my temples. Maybe the problem isn’t the story but me. Maybe I’m not cut out to be the hoopoe, guiding others toward enlightenment when I can’t even find my own way out of this cluttered apartment.
The birds outside seem to mock me, their squawks and chirps a chaotic symphony of life’s persistent noise. Perhaps they’re discussing their own journey, plotting a quest to find their Simorgh while I sit here paralyzed by self-doubt.
An idea flickers—a fleeting spark in the darkness. What if the story isn’t about birds or distant metaphysical quests? What if it’s about someone like me, lost in the maze of modern existence, searching for meaning in a world that no longer values it?
I grab a pen and scribble a new title: “Echoes Across the Sky.” Not original, perhaps, but it’s a start. I begin to write, channeling the frustration and cynicism that’s been gnawing at me.
“The city is a labyrinth, each alleyway a vein pumping despair through the heart of humanity. Amongst the towering monoliths of glass and steel, a solitary figure wanders, searching for something he can’t name.”
I pause, the pen hovering over the paper. Is this any better? Or am I just regurgitating the same nihilistic drivel that permeates every corner of contemporary literature?The phone buzzes, startling me. A text from an old friend, Nadia. “Haven’t seen you in ages. Coffee later?”
I consider ignoring it but type back, “Sure, why not.”
Maybe a change of scenery will shake something loose.
At the café, Nadia is already seated, a stack of papers beside her and a coffee cup warming her hands. She smiles as I approach. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
“Nice to see you too,” I mutter, sliding into the seat opposite her.
“Still brooding over that manuscript?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.
“Brooding, procrastinating, contemplating setting it on fire,” I reply.
She chuckles. “Ever thought that maybe you’re overcomplicating it?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Well,” she says, tapping her fingers on the table, “you’re trying to modernize a Sufi epic about birds seeking enlightenment. Maybe that’s not resonating because it’s not grounded in your reality.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, perhaps you should be writing about your own journey, or lack thereof.”
I scoff. “My journey? Trust me, no one wants to read about a washed-up writer battling existential dread.”
“Don’t be so sure,” she says softly. “Authenticity resonates. Besides, isn’t that what Attar was doing? Using the birds as metaphors for human traits and struggles?”
I sip my coffee, letting her words sink in. Maybe she’s onto something.
“Fine,” I concede. “But how do I translate a 12th-century spiritual quest into something relevant today?”
She smiles. “That’s for you to figure out. But maybe start by looking at the characters, the birds. Each one represents a different facet of humanity, right? Why not reimagine them as people in today’s world?”
I mull this over. “Like who?”
“Well, take the nightingale, obsessed with love. Maybe he’s a romantic stuck in the past, unable to move forward. The peacock, longing for lost glory—could be someone clinging to former fame.”
“Or the parrot, afraid of death,” I add. “Perhaps a tech mogul obsessed with longevity.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Make it a journey through the city, each character representing a different hurdle or temptation.”
The idea begins to take shape, the fog lifting ever so slightly.
“Thanks,” I say, meaning it.
“Anytime,” she replies. “Just promise me you’ll actually write something.”
Back at my apartment, I feel a flicker of motivation. I start mapping out characters, modern embodiments of Attar’s birds.
There’s Nick, the nightclub singer—a nightingale crooning old love songs to dwindling audiences, trapped in nostalgia. Penelope, the social media influencer—a peacock flaunting superficial beauty while yearning for genuine connection. And Ray, the venture capitalist—our parrot, investing millions in anti-aging research to escape mortality.
As I weave their stories, the city becomes the backdrop for their journey, a concrete desert they must traverse to find their own versions of the Simorgh.
I write late into the night, the clacking of keys mingling with the distant sounds of sirens and the occasional honk of a horn. The birds outside have quieted, replaced by the nocturnal whispers of the sleepless city.
In this version, the hoopoe is an enigmatic street artist named Harlan, leaving cryptic messages and murals that guide the characters toward self-realization. He becomes the thread that ties their disparate lives together.
I find myself drawn into their stories, my own cynicism bleeding onto the pages. Their struggles mirror mine, each character confronting the emptiness of modern existence in their own way.
But as they journey, something shifts. Through encounters and hardships, they begin to see past their obsessions. Nick realizes that his fixation on the past prevents him from creating new music. Penelope starts volunteering anonymously, finding fulfillment beyond likes and shares. Ray befriends a terminally ill child, confronting the inevitability of death and the value of the present moment.By the time they converge, they discover that what they were seeking wasn’t external validation or escape but acceptance of themselves.
I pause, reading back over what I’ve written. It’s cliché, perhaps, but there’s an honesty to it that I hadn’t expected.
The sun begins to rise, casting a pale glow through the grimy window. Exhaustion tugs at me, but there’s a satisfaction in the weariness.
I get a text from Nadia: “How’s the writing going?”
“Progress,” I reply.
“See? Told you,” she texts back, adding a winking emoji.
I stretch, joints popping, and decide to step outside. The city in the early morning is different—less abrasive, more introspective. The birds are starting to stir again, their songs a tentative greeting to the new day.
As I walk, I notice a mural on a building I hadn’t seen before. It’s a depiction of a flock of birds taking flight, each painted in vibrant colors. At the center is a shimmering outline of a figure—could be a bird, could be something else.
A signature at the bottom reads “Harlan.”
I blink, stunned. Coincidence? Or had I seen this before, subconsciously weaving it into my story?
I snap a photo and send it to Nadia. “Look familiar?”
“Whoa,” she replies. “Art imitating life or life imitating art?”
“Good question,” I type back.
I stand there for a while, contemplating. Maybe the line between reality and fiction is more blurred than I thought. Perhaps the journey isn’t just for my characters but for me as well.
Back at my desk, I continue writing, the words flowing more freely. I let the story take its own course, not forcing an epiphany but allowing it to emerge naturally.
The characters don’t find enlightenment in the traditional sense. There’s no grand revelation, no mystical Simorgh waiting at the end. Instead, they find small moments of clarity, glimpses of meaning in the mundane.
And maybe that’s enough.
Days turn into weeks as I delve deeper into the manuscript. Nadia becomes my sounding board, offering insights and critiques. Our conversations shift from the theoretical to the personal, peeling back layers I’d long kept hidden.
One evening, she asks me, “Do you think we ever truly find what we’re looking for?”
I consider this. “Maybe it’s not about finding something but accepting that we might not need to.”
She smiles softly. “Perhaps that’s the key.”
As I near the end of the story, I realize that the journey has been as much about confronting my own cynicism as it has been about crafting a narrative. The tormented writer trope feels less like a badge of honor and more like an excuse I’ve been hiding behind.
I finish the manuscript, titling it “Echoes Across the Sky.” It’s not perfect, but it’s honest.
I send it to Nadia, anxious for her feedback.
A few days later, she calls me. “It’s powerful,” she says. “Raw and real. I think others will connect with it.”
“Thanks,” I reply, relief washing over me.
“Promise me you won’t shove this in a drawer,” she insists. “Submit it.”
I hesitate but agree.
Months later, I receive an acceptance letter from a small publishing house. They’re excited about the manuscript, see potential in it.
I share the news with Nadia over coffee. She raises her cup in a toast. “To journeys and self-realization.”
I clink my cup against hers. “To unexpected guides,” I add.
The city doesn’t seem as oppressive anymore. The birds outside my window still argue, but their chatter has become a familiar symphony rather than an annoyance.
I realize that while I may never achieve enlightenment in the Sufi sense, I’ve found a semblance of peace in embracing the uncertainties of life.
As I walk home, I pass the mural by Harlan again. Someone has added to it—a small figure at the edge of the flock, looking back but still moving forward.
I smile, feeling a connection to that image.
Perhaps the journey isn’t about finding definitive answers but about continuing to seek, to question, to grow.And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.