They convert me as a pigeon

And I thanked them, cause I was the pigeon who returning to the same windowsill every day like the one-sided lover repeats their longing. There's no reward, no confirmation-just the act itself.

The human heart seeks meaning in a world that offers none. But still, like Sisyphus pushing his boulder, the pigeon comes back. The lover hopes. In this, there's both tragedy and quiet heroism. The absurd lover -like the pigeon-keeps flying back, not because it makes sense, but because that's what love, irrational and pure, does.