ORIGIN: Some people cut apples horizontally to find stars. We cut them vertically to find owls because silence isn’t our thing.
The owl of my heart has taken wing. That’s my treasure right there. That pillow. Those feathers. My line in the sand. Sweet dreams. Sweet dreams. Sweet dreams. Stop right there. A feather-soft whisper in my ear. Not another bite. Wake up. Before you strike something that isn’t gold. The black, tear-shaped poison of no return. Dreams should only leave sweetness in the mouth. But soon that line will be no more. And I will dream. I will bite. And bite. And bite. More tears than I can swallow. Drowning my lungs. No more wind. For frail things like owl wings and white sails.
I don’t care about the things most creatures can’t live without. Sunlight. Water. Air. My owl has taught me to only pay attention to the things we can’t dream without. It can fly in the dark. Dry-eyed. Without begging the Wind for help. All my owl needs is a blue canvas and a loud heartbeat. Its wings follow wherever that music leads, painting the sweetest dreams. But I don’t have wings. There is darkness in my heart. A poison called cyanide. But I won’t be taken for a fool. Dreams are meant to be sweet, they are meant to be painted on midnight blue. My heart can’t be trusted. It can’t be allowed to beat. It has to be wrapped. Tight. Candies are sweet. Their wrappers rustle like feathers. And that’s the only music I will allow myself to follow. I refuse to paint my dreams with an acrid, bitter color. Life can keep those flavors for itself.
Owls are thieves in the night. They come for your dreams. For the gravity that keeps your heart from floating out of your chest. Your ribcage is no match for their talons. It breaks. There go the bones of two dozen scared little mice. And like the coward that you are, you try to hold on to your dreams. You hold your breath. Tight. Tight. Tight. Sparks fly from your lungs. Has anyone ever told you that a long time ago the Owls let the stars fall from their beaks, like crumbs, out of pity, for the little mice of the world? But you aren’t afraid of the dark, are you? You are afraid of life, and the Owls cannot condone that. Up. Up. Up. Your dreams float away. Your heart follows their white-hot wake. And you are left behind. With nowhere to hide. Only life to face.
An owl once told me that I was the apple of his eye. He was my world. Everything I looked up to. I thought he knew everything there was to know. Including me. He was a dreamer. I wanted to be one too. But the stars made me feel small. He knew that, and he told me not to be afraid of the dark. To dream big. Because I would always have room to grow. But stars burst. Hearts do too. It hurt. I wanted to keep growing. But my feet got tangled in the pieces the first time my heart broke. The ground. Something hard, that didn’t have any give. And I never plucked up the courage to try again. The apple fell from the eye. And I feel smaller by the day. Because my owl won’t even look down on me. I don’t form part of his world anymore.
Apple-red temptation. Lucky for you, you have been blessed with the eyes of a far-sighted owl. You already know how the fairytale ends. Will you take a bite nevertheless?
There’s a natural order to most things. One day I will close my eyes. There will be darkness. There will be rot. A cluster of white maggots will wriggle like stars in the night, and I will be gone. But you are wide awake. What I see in your eyes is not a harmless dream. Here tonight. Gone tomorrow. Hope has a hold on you. But you don’t smell the rot. Your heart tickles. You smile, and hope blooms. I see a bunch of worms digging your grave. That could have been that. Harmless stems. But you keep smiling, and the flowers keep piling up. How long will it take you to realize that hope only buries people alive?
I was young once. A hungry little thing. There were stars in my eyes, but it wasn’t enough. Owls howl, you see. The Night is used to that melody. But my stomach growled, and that is what came out of my beak. I demanded more wonder in my life, and I must have scared the Night. Poor, poor deer in the headlights. Black and white stood still. Forever was within my grasp, and I gorged myself on the stars. But wonder is not meant to last. Soon, all the stars tasted alike. Ashes on my tongue. And the next thing to come out of my beak was a pellet. Dawn broke, and I saw starry bones and pieces of my own heart, held together by something I wish I had never recognized. The child I no longer was. The child you still are. So, don’t stray too far. Close your eyes. Sleep. And treasure the stars you already have. Close your eyes. Before all the wonderful things that have shaped you turn into something you wish you had never seen.
Birds fly. Most everyone says that birds are free. I am an owl. I have good hearing, and the sky is full to the brim with those kinds of words. I should be able to believe in freedom. But there are apple seeds in my core. Doubts. Something dark, that takes me back to the cradle. I seek something other than darkness. I follow the light. I break free and feel the sky for the first time in my life. But that’s not freedom, is it? Water and light. Yellow and blue. Even if I didn’t feel indebted, and green wasn’t a constant reminder of the things I depend on, there are still places I cannot follow my heart to. I cannot break into space. Earth was my cradle. It will be my grave. And maybe those are the words other people have in their hearts. Maybe I am the only one that wants more out of life. To follow the light to its source. And that is why freedom doesn’t work its magic on me.
I would be lying if I said that I have never been tempted. I am an owl. I only have eyes for faraway things. But the stars are as far as I am willing to go. I was born alone, and I intend to die alone. The worms can have my wings and my heart. They can have my flesh and every last memory stashed in my bones. But dreams aren’t meant to be dragged down to Earth. Dreams should outlast the stars. And I refuse to make them a reality, only to feel them rot close to my heart. I don’t need to take that kind of warmth to my grave. I would rather be buried in cold, cold earth. Knowing that my dreams will be forever safe.
Dearheart, what will you do now that your owl is gone? How will you keep those little worms from rotting you from within?
Rot spreads. From one apple to the next. But I grew up surrounded by green leaves, and I couldn’t bring myself to abandon all hope. I wanted, no, I needed to believe that good things can spread too, like marmalade on toast. I didn’t know how to believe in myself. But others believed in me. And I needed, with all my heart, for that to count too. But their warm voices never wormed their way into my apple core. Into that little place, where my doubts still scream louder than poison, uneaten.
My lovelies, you have come to the wrong apple. I thrive on expectations. My tree didn’t curse me. My tree never wished me only happiness, confining me to a world smaller than a flowerpot. I may not be able to touch the sky, but when my time comes, I will spread my roots and I will strive for it nonetheless. Because my tree believes in me, and it knows that I can make something of myself. A smile won’t be the end of my world, and I won’t rot come my first heartbreak.
Contentment can only lead to heartbreak. I was an apple unknowingly calling the worms home. I had all I needed to be happy. I wasn’t greedy, and I never bothered looking for more. For other things or other people that could have brought me happiness too. I had a place in the world, a home, and I was whole. Life went on. But then the worms finally came calling, and now my heart is riddled with holes. Holes I can’t fill. Because I had everything I needed, and nothing fits anymore. I made sure that of the things that are left in the world, nothing and no one has the right shape.
You are wrong. My thoughts are safe. I don’t like music; I am not easily swayed. Worms can only find their way to the words I speak aloud. To those words others can so easily twist. My thoughts are safe. Relationships rot. It’s part of life. But no one and nothing will make me hate myself.
I don’t need a crown of snakes. My worms don’t have to pretend to be something they are not. My gaze doesn’t turn everything it touches to stone. My owl eyes are apple seeds. Poison is my weapon of choice. That’s the magic word. Choice. Of which crowns leave none. I may be far-sighted, but I can’t choose between all or nothing. Love worms its way into the blackest of hearts, and I don’t want to hurt the ones I love. Thus, those sunglasses.
Stay close to me. Don’t go falling far from the tree. My shadow is the safest place to be. Where I can’t tell where I end and you two begin. Inherit my name. Please. Don’t let me see you for who you are. I only know how to love myself. Don’t make me try. I already know how it will turn out, and I don’t want to poison you.
Growing up, the only color I remember is midnight blue. All I ever wanted was to fly. High. Somewhere the horizon wouldn’t follow me. I only had eyes for the sky. For that highest of places, where far and near bleed into each other, becoming one and the same color. I was Near. The sky was Far. And I could almost taste my dream coming true. But red got in the way. Life. Love. Things that creep into the empty spaces closest to you. Things I can’t appreciate because I don’t remember a night when I wasn’t already a far-sighted owl. It’s too late for me. But not for you. You can still grow up in the very heart of the color green. My detachment poisoned those that had eyes for me. And hopefully you won’t follow in my wingbeats.
It’s easier said than done. Dreams poison relationships, it’s only a matter of time. I know that. But I can’t take an apple-corer to my heart. That should be my answer. Without hesitation. Without blinking. You love me, and I’m expected to hand you my owl eyes on a platter. But I love myself too, and my dreams have done more to shape me than your love has thus far. I know that my dreams could disappear at daybreak and we could have a future, but that’s not enough to tip the scales in favor of our love. No bird ever flies with only one wing. And I don’t see anything on your platter, my nearsighted love.
The owl has left you to rot. That heartless owl has left you at the mercy of the worms. You are red, but the shape is all wrong, isn’t it? The last H in hearth stands for home, and that’s where the owl has flown. Somewhere that feels right. Unlike you.
Worms: Smile. Do your best. Try harder. You are almost there. Hold that smile. So what if your owl graces now an ace of hearts? Everybody cheats at cards. Your owl’s new home is built on lies. Believe us, its happiness won’t last.
Worm: That’s the spirit. Don’t ever question your own worth. Your owl left you, but it wasn’t for something better. The air inside those balloons isn’t any warmer than your red apple skin. You were a wonderful home. You did everything right. It’s not your fault that owl didn’t pull its weight. There’s still time. Someday you will be somebody’s dream home.
Worms: Rejoice! Your owl hasn’t strayed too far. It’s caged in a heart-shaped leaf, and you can still share the same fate. We aren’t stars, but we will make sure that both of you rot at the same time. Like lovers still bound by the same red thread.
Worms: What do you want us to say? Owls can fit almost anywhere. There is no such thing as soulmates, love doesn’t have anything to do with oranges cut in half. Or apples. Or strawberries. Or peacock feathers for that matter. There are no perfect fits. You are as easy to replace as the next.
The future? Sure. Hand me those apples, I will peel them for you. Red isn’t their color, but your heart is black as night, and it will do. Just listen to the owls hoot. That’s your future. Is it everything you hoped it would be? No, leave the echoes be. Don’t throw that question right back at me. My color is green. That means that I push the night back. As far back as I can get away with. I cling to hope, and I do my best not to let it rot.
There’s an owl in my apple core. It’s as plain as day. The sun counts as starlight too. But you don’t see it, do you? Don’t worry, I’m used to being alone. It doesn’t feel like heartbreak anymore. Imagination is the language where I feel at home, but I can use plain words too, when the loneliness threatens to be too much.
Deep down in your heart you must know that you simply can’t have everything in this life. Temptation is there. The reddest of apples, ripe for the biting. But choices must be made. Owls and Stars can’t coexist, not when they occupy the same space. Whether you use a knife or your own teeth, freeing one means leaving the other for dead. So, what will it be? Childish dreams by starlight, or the wisdom that keeps your stomach well fed.
An angel isn’t something that keeps you safe. An angel is a feeling of safety, of peace, with no basis in reality. I am an owl, and my angel is made of worms. Every night I fall asleep. The poisonous sleep of red apples. I am not blind. I know the risks of reading too many fairytales, but every night I take another bite. The worms dig holes, one bite at a time, and I dream, surrounded by stars. I am not safe. I never will be. But every night my angel takes me as far away from reality as it can, and I dream, peacefully.
Don’t let its eyes fool you, that owl has no reason to be sad. Look at its wings. Look at my smile. Hope hasn’t met reality yet. It’s an upward stroke meant to paint the sky. All eagerness and starry feathers. I hold it in place. There won’t be a downward stroke. No color will be put to paper. Only pigs get to wallow in mud. That owl won’t be wallowing in disappointment. Not on my watch.
It’s all that owl’s fault. I don’t want to track sadness, but its teary-eyed gaze is overpowering. I have been cursed, and I don’t know how to break free. I am a pig. My snout is meant for truffles. It is meant for chocolates and love. For the sweetness of dreams, not the bitterness of heartbreak. It’s all this apple’s fault. There isn’t any pink in the sunset, only the deepest red. There aren’t any stars, not a single drop of milk to make the night less bitter. That owl demands that I grow up and learn the ways of the world. But I don’t want to follow that disheartening smell to my grave.
This is an apple, not an orange. There are no soulmates here, not even opposites that attract. Gravity crushes hopes, and that owl delivered the final blow to my heart. I am a pig. I wallow in things that are long past. Little bites of happiness, doomed to leave an aftertaste of misery in the mouth. That owl was supposed to gaze into the future and bring me hope. Starlight. Something bright, that would offset all this mud. But its eyes tell a story older than time. One I already know by heart. So, I won’t be adding those tears to my mud.
Allow me to be your guide. Don’t be discouraged by all this darkness, I won’t let you get lost. Close your eyes and dream, my child. Be happy while you grow up. The world will be waiting for you on the other side. I have hoarded all the stars here for you. The sweetest dreams. Don’t worry, my child. Allow yourself this childhood to be happy, you can afford the time. It doesn’t take all that long to learn to survive.
Here is your mantle of stars. You are now the King of the Night. Hoot like the owl you are. Let us hear your first decree.
I hereby banish Gravity from these lands. Those are the words dying to take wing from my mouth. I should be busting that door wide open. But I don’t want to float among the stars. I want to fly. Ups and downs in my life. Wingbeats. The reins in my hands. I want to have a say in my life. No more dreaming under the stars. But my wings wouldn’t mean anything in space. I would float aimlessly. With nothing left to achieve.
Apples fall from trees, once every year, by the dozens. But the stars are taking too long. There aren’t enough falling stars. Everyone deserves to have at least one wish come true in their life. So, that shall be my first decree. Let us raise our hands and pluck the stars.
I should step down while I can still forgive myself. Before I cross the line, and guilt pushes everything I hold dear out of my eyes. I am an owl. I have a dream. I have seen what it would take to make it a reality. There are enough apples in the land. I could poison everyone into sleep and get rid of everything that stands in my dream’s way. But that would be wrong. It’s common knowledge that people are more important than dreams. And wise owls should never forget that root.
Lights out. Your king has spoken. My predecessor was too lenient. He allowed you to drive the stars away, but I am not fond of neon lights. I want the stars back. Every last one of them. You can start by cutting all those apples in half. Horizontally. And I will grant you a little bit of time to figure out how to put the stars back where they belong.
Apple pies go on windowsills. Mine offers an unobstructed view of the sky. But it doesn’t bring me any comfort. I remain an owl caged in an apple core. I can’t spread my wings anymore. All that was mine is now buried in that apple pie. Warmth floats away. There is no comfort. My wings won’t find their way to the sky. When that pie cools, all my hopes and dreams will still be there. Buried. But not beside me.
At least the worms aren’t greedy. They always leave stars in their wake when they feed. But one bite wasn’t enough for you. You had to take my whole sky for your apple pie, trapping that homeless owl in a cage. All heart. It struck a chord, did it not? Guilt wriggled like worms digging a grave, and you hurried to make amends. A second leaf, plucked out of thin air, how generous of you. To complete a pair of wings, that just like the stars, will forever remain out of reach.
Mad? Whatever gave you that impression? I am still looking for the right words to express my gratitude to you. Every bird knows the limits of its own wings. We can only fly so high, and our one and only fault is that we accept that and go on with our lives. But not you. People like you don’t accept no for an answer, you reach for the stars. So, why don’t you finish what you have started? Cut four more slices of that delicious apple pie. Show me a star that shines thanks to my wings, and there will be no hard feelings.
Where is my apple pie? I am a creature of the night. I’m supposed to have more in common with the stars than with the moths that fly into the flames and disappear in a puff of smoke. Starlight lingers, white as ghosts. I didn’t merely use my wings to fly, I used them to dream. They deserved a grave. Somewhere I could cry. But there is no apple pie. You used your teeth. You took everything. And you didn’t even leave me an outlet for my grief.