A pajarillo que se ha de perder, alillas le han de nacer.
Apparently, prosperity is cause of ruin. And we couldn’t resist that little bird doomed to get lost even before taking wing for the first time.
In a hollow tree there is a nest. In that nest there are two chicks still covered in fluff. The die is cast, they have to accept their lot. Under all that fluff their feathers have already sprouted, their wings have already taken shape. All that’s left to do is for those birds to shed their fluff and look at what fate has in store for them.
The little bird on the left is trembling with fear. Its fluff falls to the nest, revealing a pair of stunted wings that will never support its flight.
The little bird on the right is impatient, it wastes no time in pecking out its fluff, revealing a pair of well-formed wings ready to take to the sky.
With the die cast and the nest covered in fluff, both birds take their leave. One only has eyes for the sky and the other only has eyes for the ground. One cries with relief and the other cries with despair.
The story ends with a flying bird. With a bird that has been dragged to an empty sky by its wings. Where it is doomed to get lost because there is nothing that can be called home in that emptiness. The story ends with a stunted bird. With a bird that will never rise above the ground. But it will always find its way because the ground is full of potential homes.
The sky scares me. I don’t know what will come out of the blue. I am a talentless little thing. I could dream of becoming anything at all. Saying that the sky is the limit is a lie. Off the top of my head, I can name more than 50 shades of blue. I have seen what happens to hearts that are pulled in all directions at once. And I don’t want to break into red raindrops.
It’s happening. Three is the magical number that makes everything real. The gravity that keeps our feet on the ground, putting an end to wishful thinking. I’m not a nocturnal bird. These bald patches aren’t moonlit clearings, I don’t have magic on my side. The sky might be too blue to shiver with cold, but I have heard it tremble with laughter. That’s what people do, when they know your worst fears will come true long before you do.
I’m trapped. Halfway between childhood and adulthood. Happy lies and harsh realities. I thought that shivering was a defense mechanism. A way to shake off childish fears and colorful nightmares drawn in crayon. I felt like a superhero. I thought that I was ready to spread my wings and take on the world. But this stunted thing has no muscles in sight. And I can only pray no one bothers to eat me alive.
Penguins, ostriches, kiwis and a bunch of other birds don’t fly. It’s not the end of the world. Maybe waterfalls can’t be nipped in the bud, but I can smile and break the fall of these tears. I can catch them in flight before they hit the ground. It’s too late for my wings, but I’m sure I can force a smile to spread across my face. After all, Happiness lives by the words fake it till you make it.
I hate being a child. It has nothing to do with being told what to do. What I hate is being told that I don’t know myself and I can’t be trusted to make the right choice, just because the bones in my skull have yet to fuse together. I don’t want to swim in the middle of the ocean. I don’t want to leapfrog to the moon or wormbite my way to the center of the earth. I have wings and I want to fly. That’s it. And if I grow to regret it, that’s between my heart and me.
Why do I have to wait? I hate having to live my life on someone else’s schedule. I’m the type of child that would use a piece of string and a doorknob to pull his teeth. The type of child that would have smashed his piggybank to pieces to buy a glass of moonlight so that his bones would be contractually obligated to grow overnight. Don’t tell me that the stars won’t go anywhere. My sense of wonder has its days numbered, and I need to fly before it’s too late.
I hate clouds. I spent my childhood with my head in them. I didn’t need to be taken under anybody’s wing. There was food on the table, and I was free to scrape my knees to my heart’s content in pursuit of the perfect adventure. I grew up sheltered from the real world, and I will always be grateful. But somebody should have pecked these silly dreams out of my eyes, or at the very least reminded me that no cloud lasts forever.
Why? Why? Why? Perfection leaves no room for improvement. I can’t breathe. This pair of wings makes me feel claustrophobic. The sky is blue and I feel sadder than sad. This is not how you reward people who try their best. If somebody had told me that the sky is empty because heaven doesn’t need anybody else’s input, I would have strived for Hell.