Trojan horse

The year is almost at a close and it hardly seems the time to start something new. But that is what I've done. Timing is everything or so they say, yet time itself is more a mock structure for our lives that sets our expectations of what should be happening right now, and what comes next.

It's a new job. That's what I've started. The gates opened unexpectedly, and at first I was cynical. Not a trait I'm proud of but it's part and parcel of my long-suffering survival instinct. I rode in slowly on my Trojan horse. As the wheels creaked to a halt, I sat inside, huddled, listening for explosions, gun fire, yelling. I wait for it, confused and suspicious. I have long prepared myself for this moment. I am armed and I am dangerous. But where I find myself now, this is not the same war zone... I am met by a resounding silence.

Over a decade of siege, I have constructed this wooden horse. It has been my protection. My get-out-of-jail-free, hide-when-you're-scared, armoured shell. The tough 'n' stuff I carry on my back, so that nothing sticks and there is no cut too deep to heal from. Though made from hard, resilient timber, the horse is always hungry. He feeds on fear and indignation.

And in many ways, he has been feeding on me.

Now, I pop the peephole and look out to survey my new surroundings. The sun is shining. The air seems clear. I emerge, surprised to find I am no longer at war. People are amused and pleased to see me as I dust myself off and shut the horse's gut behind me.

I am not their foe, nor have I tricked them to let me inside their secure space. I am invited. I am welcome. Low and behold, the horse that got me into Troy time and time again, was not at all the stratagem to end the conflict. All it took was me.

Needless to say, I do not intend to ride out on the horse I rode in on. But I will stable it, for now. I don't quite have the energy to push it to the outer yet.

From where I sit at my new desk, I can see the back of a sign, advertising the company to those that pass by. A bird is nesting there, inside the letter 'r', and occasionally I look up to see him bringing small twigs and leaves to build his urban hideaway. He tweets and flutters, scampering in and out from behind the metal scaffold. Every so often, he appears to look me in the eye. Head tilted to the side, he regards me with feint interest.

Mr Bird has things in perspective. He reminds me that everything we do feeds back to our home, our family, and is part of something much, much bigger.