Deep Shit Humour

Bijou was a beautiful white dove. He sang so beautifully that all the other doves envied him.


And because of this envy, he flew away from his flock. He was confident he can survive on his own, blessed with a beautiful voice and a graceful figure, he could never go wrong.


But the thing is, all his life, Bijou never left the flock. All he knew about the world was his friends and his nest.


Now, all alone, flying through the wheat fields, and grey blue oceans, he had the slightest knowledge where he was heading.


He moved his wings repeatedly, and glided slowly and slowly with its apparently motionless but fully spread wings, a technique for doves to respite while at flight.


Days turned into weeks; weeks turned into months. Bijou become restless. Every place he landed, hoping to make home, did not suit his epitome. When he sang, the reverberation of his song, revealed an obnoxious eeriness.


Bijou continued to fly, higher and higher. Searching for the perfect home. As innocent he was of the world and it's cruel ''nature'', as he flew higher, he felt an unsettling cold wind blazing through his wings. and within a short stint, his wings began to freeze. 


Bijou lost any control he had left on his wings and rocketted down through the cold atmosphere.
As he descented rapidly towards earth, he vaguely watched white flakes blanketing on him, almost creating a shiled of some sort.


Bijou fell on a stack of hay. He was tired, frozen and too ignorant to look around him. The white flakes, which Bijou was unwise to know that it was snow, fell upon him like a congealed blessing from heaven.
Bijou shut his beady eyes.


Warmth crept through his now rescinded body. His wings felt liberated. As he opened his eyes, he realised, he was not covered in the white flakes anymore. But it was something else. It was auburn, smelled horrific and yet gave a tingling warmth sensation to his body. It was dung. A cow, or a cattle of somesort, has dropped some dung on him.


Could this be my perfect home, Bijou thought. He never felt such warmness showered on him, even by his mother when he was little. Not only it reflexed his body and wings, it also rejuvenated his mind.


Bijou started to sing out of joy. And his song echoed happiness. It attracted peace, harmony and love to his mind.


It also attracted a cat.


The cat dug Bijou out of the dung and ate him. Moments before Bijou lost his consciousness, as a result of being clawed to death by the cat, the his innocence towards the knowledge of the cruel world, vanished, as he learnt the greatest lesson the world has to offer.


Not everyone who shits on you is your enemy, and not everyone who gets you out of shit is your friend and most importantly, when your in a pile shit, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

LEO

Leo, the Lion.


A Lion that right now, doesn't have a pack.


A Lion that hunts alone. A Lion hunting alone in a vacant jungle.


But the lion is not in despair. It does not feel lonely.


It wasn't laid off, or lost it's pack. It left the pack. This Lion didn't want to be the King of the jungle. This Lion wants to be the King of it's own. An army of it's own.


He isn't a lounge lizard or a lunatic. He is living in loneliness. The linchpin of his loneliness isn't a loss of a lover or leftovers of a lousy liasion.


Once upon time, all the animals in the land loved the Lion. The Lion loved them too. But then it came to comprehend, in order to survive, it has to hunt and prey on the same animals. So the Lion decided to leave for the good of it's friends. But the other animals decided to percept the Lion; that he was arragont of being to good for this wilderness. The Lion kept walking.


Now he has found a solemn of his own. Although it fails to provide the similiar solace as before, nevertheless, the Lion fares to harvest the best out of it. He is new to this jungle, a bitter wilderness to his strong heart.


But as a born leader, the Lion is likely to limn and laud the will lift the spirits of the one who looks and listens to his lead. Never will the Lion fail the ones that loves and trusts him.


So why is the Lion lonely? The oddity of the Lion is legendary and the radiant literature of life is the Lion's livelihood. It is eternally loyal to the luminescence of the light. His labor is to enlighten it's current scenery with a lantern of his large and permanent, poetic, inspiring, semantic lonesome lament.


To live is to love, and to love is to live itself. And to love, is to land in the life of the lonely, untill love is all that lives, till loneliness is left with love alone. To be loved by love itself.


Leo will live.