ORIGIN: It’s a family tree.
Grandfather was a pathfinder. He was born a mouse and died a bat. Nobody knows where he got his inspiration from, but we got ours from a frog.
I know that inspiration is all about breathing in oxygen and breathing out carbon dioxide, but that picture doesn’t resonate with me. When I think of my grandfather, I see water dripping down stalactites. The time he gifted me and the care he took of me. I never tried to grow into a stalagmite, the mirror image of him, but I took to water like a tadpole. And even though he died before I grew into a frog, I know that my gratitude, the footprints of my highest jump, will be seen from space.
I couldn’t wait to grow up. I was dying to put distance between my reality and my dream. I stood on tiptoe, but I couldn’t reach. I jumped. I grazed my fingertips. Something irreplaceable tipped off its axis and fell to the ground. I closed my eyes and tasted blood. I waited. But the broken pieces didn’t get put back together as if by magic.
I can’t meet my eyes in the mirror when I am brushing my teeth. I don’t want to remember greener days. My heart jumping up and down on the bed, clamoring to make its dream come true. It’s been years since I came down from that last sugar rush, but I still can’t get the aftertaste off my tongue. I know that technically speaking nobody died. I’m still the same old me. I just wish somebody had taught me how to mourn failure properly.
I am a child. My brain is lit by fireworks that go higher than any frog has ever jumped before. Doomsday scenarios shouldn’t be part of my summer reading list. Why can’t it wait until I turn 18? If it wasn’t meant to be, at the stroke of midnight, I will rip out my heart and watch it go up in smoke. But I believe my dreams deserve my undivided attention until they are a hair’s breadth away from pitch blackness. Eyelashes curve upwards, and I intend to say goodbye with a smile, because I’ve seen what water does to smoke.
I heard somewhere that poison can be fought with poison. I never asked for this dream. I would have loved to idle my childhood away. Without self-inflicted pressure or self-imposed expectations. But this dream was quick to poison my blood. My only hope is to make it come true as soon as possible. But something tells me that reality simply won’t compare.
Bats like me don’t take flight, we fall into it. We let go of our cave’s ceiling, and I can’t help it. That action conjures up words like halfhearted and lackluster. Words sharper than stalactites, that stab me in the stomach to watch me slowly and painfully bleed to death. I would rather jump like a frog. Leaving my footprints in the ground like an open wound. Proof that I am all high hopes and enthusiasm.
I don’t like flying at night, darkness ruins all the fun. Frogs get to blend into the background. Fallen leaves. Tree bark. Algal blooms. Mossy rocks. I just want to blend into the stars, is that asking too much? I’m tired of being coddled. Darkness can keep its cover, I deserve to follow my heart and grow into myself. Maybe my fangs aren’t sharp enough to puncture that cover, but I have come to realize that there’s no low I won’t stoop to. Tonight’s the night I give up moths.
I don’t like being touched. I’ve seen too many umbrellas upturned by the wind, and nobody cries over the blood they themselves have spilt. Saying that experiences shape us makes it sound so harmless, but I can’t be the only one that can put a face to all the fingerprints that mar me bone deep. That’s why I envy frogs their poison. I wish I also had a deterrent, something that made others afraid of touching me. But I would content myself with the means to drag them to hell along with me.
Do you know why I sleep upside down? It’s because I can’t stand the sight of reality and I want my dreams to be the exact opposite of it. When rigor mortis finally sets in, I hope Hell picks up where my dreams left off. But stalactites are easily broken. Nobody seems to believe in the words live and let live anymore. Lucky for me, frogs still have adhesive toe pads. So, I guess I will just borrow a set, and you can go on jostling with my blessing.
You’ve grown into a frog, but there’s still a little bit of bat left in you.
Stalactites take a long, long time to form. They are the quintessential work-in-progress. That’s what I like about being a child. Adults seem to be set in stone. Maybe I should rephrase that. They are like a frog that isn’t waiting for a kiss anymore. But I don’t want to accept my ugliness. I believe the reason I am a child-in-progress is that there is still room for improvement.
I miss sleeping like a bat. All wrapped up. As if what was in my heart were something worth cherishing. But a rush of footsteps echoed on the ground and spoke over my young and impressionable heartbeat. I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. I don’t know how many times a frog can jump before running out of breath. All I know is that it wasn’t a fair fight. I lost. I joined that rush. And it’s too late for regrets.
Do you know what dreamers have in common with bats? You should never wake them up lest they die. That’s why I prefer frogs. They have no problem going back to sleep and they don’t freeze to death. I’ve never been in love, nobody has ever broken my heart. But somebody woke me up from a dream once, and my heart didn’t precisely turn into a winter wonderland.
I still crave blood. It can’t be helped. As the saying goes, the heart wants what the heart wants. I tried to be a product of my upbringing, but here’s the thing, I was never a tadpole. I raised myself. I read books and I made friends. I am not alone. But I would have preferred a meaningful relationship with the person who brought me into this world.
Left: A little bat has told me that blood tastes like copper. Isn’t it wonderful?
Right: Actually/
Left: You might not know this, but copper turns frog-green over time. That’s the color of hope. That thing that puts a spring in your step and eventually gets you over the moon.
Right: … it tastes like iron.
Left: It’s alright. Give me the bad news. My heart can take it.
Right: But…
Left: Don’t worry, I’ve learned from the best. I’ve spent this summer taking remedial classes with a bat. My smile might look a little bit forced right now, but as soon as you give me what you are hiding behind your back, I’ll hang upside down and let my facial muscles relax. Then gravity will do its thing and my smile won’t look so unnatural anymore.
Right: I’ve had a change of heart. I think I’ll just beg a frog to teach me to eat with my eyes closed. I’d rather bury these words in my stomach acid and unsee the face you are making right now.
Right: Don’t be like that. Some bats might eat fruit, but those dots on your strawberry aren’t puncture wounds.
Left: Then why do I feel so emotionally drained?
Right: Because you are still trying to make reality play out like a fairytale?
Left: What’s wrong with that? I’ve seen people change for the better.
Right: No, you haven’t. Kissing frogs only works when they start life as a prince. You might be able to lift a curse, but you can’t create goodness from nothing.
Left: I don’t believe you! And neither does science.
Right: Laboratory conditions aren’t all that different from the pages of a fairytale. Believe me, it’s better to just rip off the band aid. My strawberry is full of frog toeprints, but at least I didn’t bleed to death.
Left: Don’t let it discourage you. I know you feel like roadkill right now, but there are worse things in life.
Right: Name one.
Left: You could be an insect splattered on a windshield. A ghost of your former self, with a front row seat to the people looking right through you as they get on with their lives.
Right: I don’t see how that is any worse than being a flattened frog on the road.
Left: Don’t you know that not all tires leave tracks? But that’s not the point. When I turn into a ghost, I don’t want to lose sight of myself because I am too fixated on my cause of death. I won’t let hatred into my heart, and neither should you. It’s better to let it echo off your skin.
What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you see a watering can?
Frog: The pond where I grew up. The past. Without a trace of rust. Because I have no regrets.
Bat: The ceiling of my cave. Blood slowly dripping down my fangs to form a stalagmite. The future. That moment when the consequences of my actions finally catch up with me.
Child: I don’t like this game. Water has no color and it shouldn’t leave behind an aftertaste. But elephants are all memory. The color of rainy days. And I have no problem retracing my tears to this bruised heart of mine.
What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you see a red pencil?
Frog: That’s the color of my eyes, and I use those when I eat. So, my answer is food for the soul. May other people’s opinion never detract from my enjoyment.
Bat: I’ll just go with the predictable answer. Blood. But I would love to pencil-sharpen my fangs and use the shavings to make a work of art. No, scratch that. One of those growth charts you see on the door frame of loving homes. I can already see myself stretching out my wings from here on to infinity.
Child: My fourth birthday. My father gave me my first pack of colored pencils. I told him that I loved him lots and red would be the first color I stubbed to death. But by the time I turned 18, there was still more than half of it left.
What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you see a green leaf?
Frog: My skin. From head to toe. Forever green. Who cares about the horizon? My heart may be red, but unlike the sun it will never set. There won’t be any dull brown, breakable leaves in my future.
Bat: The shape of my nose. The permanent smell of hope. What gets me through this seemingly endless dark night.
Child: Do plastic leaves count? I prefer dinosaur toys because you can’t compare those to the real thing. But a lot can change in just a few decades and I have never been the outdoorsy type anyway.
See-through is the word, make it work.
Frog: Actually, we go by the name of glass frogs. There’s nothing like looking in the mirror and being able to see your own heart. You should try it sometime. Just make sure that you don’t run on the lies you tell yourself every morning, and everything should be fine.
Bat: Our wings are transparent, but they are wasted on night flights. I don’t know anyone that would bother looking at the thousand and one traces of everyday life that litter the streets, so why would the stars be any different?
Child: Don’t worry, these are my throwaway teeth. Once I grow up, I will lie my way through life like everybody else. But I’ve decided to be candid and true to myself while I am still a child.
Sister: A witch’s work never ends. Every night they have to sweep the stars anew.
Bat: Should we lend them a hand? Wet sand stays in place. Tonight, I could sleep the right way up, for a change, and let blood drip up my fangs. What do you say?
Sister: I would hate for it to color your dreams, so let’s not. Witches have blood too and there’s no need for you to grow a conscience.
Sister: I’ve heard that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
Bat: And?
Sister: Dust is mostly dead skin. The childish dreams and inherent goodness that fall by the wayside as we grow up. Lately I’ve been thinking that it would be nice if a witch swept that dust into a star-shaped pile.
Bat: Let me guess, you want to be eaten by maggots under the light of such a star?
Sister: That’s what I would settle for. I’ve only ever heard of star-nosed moles, but something tells me that it wouldn’t be fair to shape you after my regrets.
Sister: If I got my hands on a witch’s broom, I don’t think I would use it to sweep the stars.
Bat: Why not?
Sister: Magic shouldn’t come at the cost of everybody else’s light in the dark. Even if most wishes never come true, every child deserves a chance to take momentary refuge among the stars.
Bat: You are right. No child should ever have to wish upon a streetlight. I will help you sweep them out the face of the earth.
Sister: It’s finally time to spring-clean the night sky.
Bat: Do you think witches sweep old stars out of the goodness of their heart?
Sister: No, but who cares? I would crumble under the weight of all those wishes that never came true, and so would you. Now we can just forget we ever spoke them aloud and go back to sleeping safe and soundly.
Bat: I have almost forgotten what it’s like not being afraid of crying myself to sleep. Thank witches stalactites aren’t formed in a day. I really wasn’t looking forward to being stabbed in the heart the day my childhood came to an end.