Absurdist Awakening

It was a Tuesday, or maybe a Thursday—Franklin had stopped keeping track. The days blurred together in a haze of monotony, punctuated only by the occasional existential crisis. Franklin worked as a clerk at a nondescript office in a nondescript building in a city that seemed to exist solely to be forgotten. His job was to file papers that no one would ever read, in cabinets that no one would ever open. It was a job that made him question the meaning of life, but not enough to actually quit.

One morning, as Franklin trudged to work, he noticed something unusual. The pigeons that usually loitered around the park bench where he ate his sad, pre-packaged sandwich were behaving oddly. Instead of pecking at crumbs or cooing mindlessly, they were gathered in a tight circle, heads tilted as if in deep conversation. Franklin paused, his sandwich halfway to his mouth. He squinted. Were the pigeons... talking?

"Excuse me," Franklin said, unsure why he was addressing birds, "are you... talking?"

The largest pigeon, a plump gray bird with a faintly judgmental air, turned to him. "Of course we're talking," it said, its voice a gravelly baritone. "What, you think we just stand around all day doing nothing?"

Franklin dropped his sandwich. "You can talk?!"

The pigeon sighed, a sound that conveyed centuries of avian exasperation. "Yes, we can talk. We've always been able to talk. You humans just never listen."

Franklin's mind reeled. This was absurd. This was impossible. This was... Tuesday? Thursday? He couldn't remember. "Why are you talking to me?" he asked, his voice trembling.

The pigeon fluffed its feathers. "Because, Franklin, you've been chosen."

"Chosen? For what?"

"For the Great Awakening," the pigeon said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You see, the universe is absurd. It has no inherent meaning, no grand design. But every so often, it likes to remind you of that fact. Consider this your reminder."

Franklin stared at the pigeon, then at the other pigeons, who nodded in solemn agreement. "But... what does that mean? What am I supposed to do?"

The pigeon shrugged—a remarkable feat for a bird. "Whatever you want. That's the point. Nothing matters, so everything matters. Or nothing matters. Honestly, it's up to you."

Franklin sat down heavily on the bench, his sandwich forgotten. The pigeons resumed their conversation, which seemed to revolve around the merits of breadcrumbs versus french fries. Franklin's mind raced. If nothing mattered, then why was he spending his life filing papers in a forgotten office? Why was he eating sad sandwiches on a park bench? Why was he talking to pigeons?

And then, like a bolt of lightning, it hit him: he didn't have to. He didn't have to do any of it. The absurdity of existence wasn't a curse—it was a gift. It meant he was free.

Franklin stood up, a grin spreading across his face. "Thank you," he said to the pigeons. "Thank you for showing me the truth."

The pigeons nodded sagely. "Don't mention it," the large one said. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have important bird business to attend to."

Franklin walked away from the park, his steps lighter than they'd been in years. He didn't go to work that day. Or the next. Instead, he started painting. He painted absurd, nonsensical scenes: a giraffe wearing a top hat, a teapot orbiting the sun, a pigeon delivering a lecture on existentialism. He painted because it made him happy, and because, in a meaningless universe, happiness was as good a purpose as any.

And sometimes, when he passed the park, he'd see the pigeons and wave. They never spoke to him again, but he liked to think they approved.

After all, in an absurd world, even a pigeon's approval could mean everything. Or nothing. It was up to him.