As I was walking, I saw a pigeon lying dead at a crosswalk. Who would’ve thought my habit of looking down while walking would lead me to such a tragic scene? It was in such a state that I could no longer make out what it had originally looked like. It must have been hit by a car. Could that bird have imagined it would die on a crosswalk? Perhaps it saw others just like itself—winged creatures walking the ground instead of flying—and chose to stay on the ground too, rather than in the sky. Maybe it believed it was only natural to feed from the earth, not the air. That day, seeing the dead bird at the crosswalk, I imagined my own death. And for a brief moment, I reflected on my life. Maybe I’m no different from that bird. Unaware of what I truly am, I try so hard to resemble the others who look like me—those who move in familiar shapes— and in doing so, I struggle on, not realizing I’ve lost sight of myself.