hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul
and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all :
a collaborative note on the bird, the tiger, & jinu. under cut for length.
an eternity alone is probably the worst thing jinu could imagine for himself. of course, it is, immediately, what he condemns himself to. freshly dragged to the underworld, stripped of everything he was & everything he knew, still raw with shame & half - misplaced anger, jinu falls upon the only thing he feels there is left to do.
he runs. from others, from gwi - ma's altar, from himself. god, especially from himself. he could never have brought his family with him, even if he had caught the loophole that their safety was never specified. even if he had not been so foolish as to agree without question, without condition – jinu was never going to make it out of that situation the good guy. if gwi - ma wants someone, he will find a way to get them.
it was always going to end in jinu's downfall. this does not mean he is exempt. this does not mean he is not ashamed. whatever plans he had in life no longer matter, down here. it does not matter that he planned to find a way to siphon money to his family – he did not have the time. he squandered it.
& so, petulantly, jinu falls back on the same thing he did in his last months of life; distances himself. separates, isolates himself, drives distinct mental barriers between himself and who he needs to be to survive, now. after what he's done, who he's abandoned, jinu does not deserve community. he does not deserve kindness, gentleness, the reaching of a loving hand.
the first thing to go, if you ask him, is his heart, but, if the evidence could speak for itself, there was never truly a time that one did not exist without the other. still, i digress.
and sweetest in the gale is heard, and sore must be the storm,
that could abash the little bird, that kept so many warm.
jinu would not be able to tell you, if asked, when, exactly, the tiger and the bird began to follow him. in a way, they were always there, less visible at the start – but it could have been that he was never paying attention. never looking behind him, because why, why would anything follow him, after all that he's done? why would anything still reach?
… truthfully, he was not immediately the kindest to those companions. he wasn't kind to anyone or anything at all, angry, bitter, cheated, how he tells it, out of a proper chance. he would never let anyone close enough to be used against him again, jinu said – but you cannot run from yourself. it always follows, a solemn, heavy - footed tiger in your wake. it is a great comfort, now, to have faith that the tiger will always return, but there was a time, once, that jinu detested it for this loyalty. he had done nothing to deserve it, nothing, do you hear him? he's a wicked man, and he'll hurt you, he swears he will!
– none of the shouting deters it, though. it can't, because, again, you cannot chase yourself away. you are forever tied, in life and death, to your heart, and all its unreasonable wants. you cannot ignore the regret steeping, jinu. it sits in the cup on your counter, and you may not look at it, but still, it exists.
it is as if the tiger knows all that sits in the marrow of jinu's bones. all the regret, all the sorrow, all the little ways his veins reach like ivy tendrils for something else to coil around. it manifests with all his desire for touch, for comfort, for the safety of a body leaning. it manifests with his willingness to serve, his willingness to heed, to serve any role, if it will mean that role is his to serve, if it means that he will provide, even if in the smallest way.
the tiger walks with all of jinu's love and jinu's guilt, reaching for all the things that jinu himself is too troubled to allow. it walks with a purpose to fix all the mistakes that are just simply unfixable. it protects the little things jinu gives it, over the centuries, the tiny objects he is unwilling to keep, but reluctant to lose. it always acts with jinu's best interests in mind, after all. this, he knows. it will do right by him, if nothing else in this world will.
i've heard it in the chillest land, and on the strangest sea ;
yet, never, in extremity, it asked a crumb of me.
and the bird. perhaps the more obvious, of the two, more on - the - nose about it. hope is the thing with feathers, yes, but the poem forgets to mention pride. petty standards, instilled by a dream of nobility. jinu denies the existence of his ego, of his expectations. pride isn't a virtue, and what has he, anyway, to be proud of, anymore?
still, though, the bird remembers. every standard, every wish, every child - minded idea to become something great – every item has been kept, stored away, file - like, in the bird's sharp mind. it reproaches jinu when he is being unreasonable, mirrors that pride in a blatant, infuriating way – and still, jinu fails to connect the dots. damn that bird, he'll think, as it enacts every annoyance jinu places upon others. damn that bird, and its refusal to settle. you can't have everything, you know.
it never stops. you cannot change such an undeniable part of yourself, jinu. always, always, always, it will know. it will sing, it will fly, it will steal, it will hope. it cannot be tamed, cannot be caged. doesn't it pose the smallest comfort, at least, knowing that there is one part of you that will not be forced into something? that there is one part of you still uncontrollable & free?
everything jinu makes, he makes with fondness. he makes with dedication. he hand - sews the costumes for his performances, you know, above the surface. he also mends his own hanbok, and, in time, offers the same to the saja boys. he's not very good at it, even after all this time, always stabbing his fingers and leaving little bloody pinpricks upon them.
when he finishes, each time, he grins, and holds it up to the light, inspecting his clumsy handiwork with a beam upon his face like the sun itself. how could the bird not want to partake in that joy? how could it not carry that pride upon its head, upon its wings, soaring across the world for everyone to see his achievements?
it will be proud of him. it will sing his praises, if nobody else has found the voice. when he plays that old bipa, reluctant as he is, at times, to bring it out of hiding, it will dance in the air & sing along gleefully, and the tiger will purr in time, because they love him. because they are proud of him. because no matter how much jinu tries, he cannot deny the animal in his chest, the one that just wants to be honest. the one that just wants to be.
