Pinja lives

Pinja lives his Biology.
He walks to school this morning, watching the birds swoop from rooftop to treetop, marvelling at the well crafted machinery of feathers and their beautiful engine that perfectly balances the Physics of the planet - the chemical balance of the air, the gravitational pull attuned to the mass of the planet, and the ability to consume food and turn it to a fuel that feeds the muscles and sinews that drives the skeleton of aerial perambulation.

Pinja lives his Mathematics.
The Sun does not rise, he knows. The sun is at one of the two foci of an elliptical orbit that the planet on which he stands carves through space, fuelled by its rotation that gives the impression of a daily birth and rebirth.

Pinja lives his Music.
The screech of tyres on the road makes him wince, but then in his mind, the sound replays to become a Soprano in an Operetta of daily living.
Birds form a chorus, the call and response a conversation that drives an audienceless plot towards an unseen resolution.
The people, shuffling along the street, sharing a sudden laugh with a friend, with others' engines thrumming a background, as their players remain encased and voiceless.
It is an eternal Symphony both complex and elegantly simple in its patterns of counterpoint.

Pinja lives his Logic.
Boolean algebra - will the person cross the road or not?
Decision points in a moment balancing safety vs four more minutes until reaching a destination. The probabilistic model playing a split second as the lights are on the cusp of changing.

The mathematical parabola of that swooping biological bird as it makes its way from the tree back to the Engineering marvel of a roof top again, Logic and Probability dictating that it had been an effective place to call once before. And the Music starts once again.

Pinja feels a hand on his shoulder.
He slows, stops, and turns.
"Are you a Minjak or a Sintab?" Asks a young man.
Pinja sees the slight relief of a blade behind the jacket, and he knows that his life lies in the balance.
He closes his eyes, and drinks in the Music for a few brief moments, before he is asked once again.
"Are you a Minjak or a Sintab?"
The man sounds a little more impatient.
Pinja opens his eyes, and can see the outline of a balled hand under the jacket.
He will not be asked again.
Nobody will react either way. They will pass around his fallen body like ripples of water around a stone, or he will walk on to school, and tell nobody of his encounter.
The world's Symphony of Subjects seems to quieten momentarily.
"I am Sintab," Pinja says.
There is a moment, when the man searches Pinja's eyes for deceit.
There is none.
The man relaxes, and takes his hand from his jacket.
"I saw you watching the path of the Bird. It is like Aflar flying to perch on a Star and look at the whole of mankind, is it not?"
Pinja knows this is a test.
"You mean the moon. Aflar perched on the crescent of the moon. Although I am sure he could have perched on a Star had he wanted to."
The young man smiles. "I am sure you are right, young Mataar."
He ruffles Pinja's hair, and walks on his way.

The Symphony swells, and Pinja walks on his way too.
The Subjects seems less distinct now.
The Bird just flies from the chimney to another tree, and cars and conversation enmesh in a whole of nothing much important.

Because Pinja has discovered his heartbeat.
He has never felt it nourish him so completely, as it fills his ears.
Pinja realizes that not only is he part of the Symphony, he is also Pinja with a music of his own.