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“Blue pig.” The express hits the ears like a conundrum or the title of a children's book—absurd, inquisitive, strangely charming. You do not anticipate pigs to be blue. Pigs are assumed to be pink, sloppy, perhaps brown in case they've rolled around sufficient. But blue? That's a entire modern story. Possibly it's a toy—plastic, rubbery, with a coin space on its back and dreams of being filled with dimes and privileged insights. Or possibly it's not a piggy bank at all. Perhaps it's a genuine pig, colored blue by mishap or purposeful, standing within the center of a barnyard, confounding the chickens and startling the canine.
I envision a rancher scratching his head, pondering how one of his pigs finished up looking like it ventured out of a Crayola box. Did the kids do it? Was it a trick? Or possibly it's the town's mascot, the “Blue Pig of Bramble Creek,” paraded around amid celebrations, eating apples and taking the appear. It seem indeed be something symbolic—a representation in a lyric, an unforeseen thing in a world that takes after rules as well entirely. A blue pig says, “I do not fit the form, and that's fine.”
At that point once more, possibly it's a dream. You're strolling through a strange scene, and there it is—trotting calmly close to a turquoise stream, blue as the sky over, like it has a place there. It looks at you with knowing eyes, like it incorporates a message, a few enormous joke you're not very in on. You chuckle, since it's crazy, but wonderful as well. There's something liberating almost the thought of a blue pig. It's a resistance against standard, a center finger to desires.
Perhaps that's why it sticks. The world needs more blue pigs—more minutes that resist rationale, more animals that make us delay and ponder. Possibly the blue pig lives in all of us, holding up for the day we halt attempting to mix in and at last paint ourselves within the color of our claim peculiar, wild truth.