Only one word today. SILVERFISH. It’s an insect that doesn’t have wings and lives in houses. But one of us doesn’t always read her words right, and we ended up with wingless birds. With birds that give up their wings so that they can have a home.
The story starts with a comparison. With fish, it doesn’t matter if they are silver or gold. The story starts with fish that live in the sea, and spend all their lives underwater. Birds don’t have that. They are born in a nest. In a nest that isn’t part of the sky, because it’s on a tree, and that tethers it to the ground. And when they finally take wing, birds realize that they will always be tied to the ground. Because staying in the sky is impossible.
This is the story of a little bird, that watched all his brothers take wing, and only last a brief moment in the sky, before having to land. When his turn came, that little bird refused to fly. He spread his wings, but it wasn’t to fly. It was to cut them off.
The little bird gave up on the sky. He chose the ground to be his home. Because he knew that he would never have felt at home in the sky. Not while he remained tethered to the ground. But now that the little bird doesn’t have wings, he doesn’t feel the pull of the sky anymore. And for the first time in his life he has a home. A place that he won’t have to leave.
There is a proverb that says that the heart doesn’t feel something the eyes don’t see. I want to be happy. I want to feel at home. Why would I look at the ground, if I am up here in the sky?
All my broodmates say that I am crazy, that I don’t know what I am giving up. But I do. Once I cut my wings, the sky will no longer have a hold over me. I will finally feel at home on the ground. There won’t be any more pulls. I will stay on the ground, and it will be goodbye to the sadness I have felt all my life. Nothing will make me leave my home. There will be no more false promises. No more short stays. No more heartbreaking until we meet agains. The last goodbye will be mine. I will tell it to the sky. For good.
There must be something wrong with me. It comes so easy to everyone else. Why not to me too? Why can’t I pretend? Why can’t I forget? I want to be like every other bird. I want to fly. I want to enjoy my time in the sky. Without the constant reminder that soon I will have to land. I want to forget the trees too. I want to pretend that the ground doesn’t exist. That only the sky does. But I can’t. It’s not about freedom. It’s about having a home, where I belong. One that cannot be taken from me.
If only I had been born a fish. I wouldn’t have known anything but water all my life. I would never have felt torn in half. I heard somewhere that the sky was an ocean too. But I don’t want to believe that. I can’t. Because it would mean that the sky deliberately chooses to send us back, to the tree, to the ground where we were born. That the sky doesn’t love us enough to welcome us home. That it barely tolerates us. One short stay, one short flight at a time.
ORIGINS: Since the birds stole the limelight, we felt that we owed the fish at least an appearance. Silver became a hook, a can, and those fish got to be named sardines.
* The real name of a silverfish is LEPISMA SACCHARINA. Those insects live in houses, and that is where the home sweet home comes from. They also like to feed on bookbindings, and that should be enough to explain the presence of the books.
A home is a place where you never feel lonely. It doesn’t matter how dark it gets. There is always a reassuring touch, reminding you that there are other sardines in the can with you. Familiar faces, in the dark, banishing the monsters far, far away. And I know that you prefer sugar, I know that you would describe your ideal home as a sweet place. But sugar scares me, and a home should never do that. There is nothing familiar in a sugar cube. No warm smile. No laughing eyes. Sugar is white, just like light, and I don’t even get to pretend that they are there. That smile. Those eyes. Where I recognize myself and feel safe.
There is no need to be mean, to crush my dreams under your shoe. There is nothing wrong with wanting a home sweet home. I know that I am a child. That you are afraid of releasing me into the big bad world. Into that place full of fishhooks waiting to catch a naive little fish like me. But there is no need to crush my innocence. At least not just yet. I promise that I will be bad, as bad as everyone else. That I won’t harbor unrealistic expectations. I promise that I will learn to survive in the world that awaits outside our home. But please, just please, can’t we pretend, just a little bit more? That only our home sweet home exists.
I’ve read it in a book. In one of those books you left behind. History repeats itself. Does it mean what I think it does? People make history. Does that mean that I am bound to repeat your mistakes? That one day I will become you? You told me that a house wasn’t a home, that family was. You said that you couldn’t breathe, that you felt stifled in this can of sardines. You left. Taking my home with you. And even though it hurts, I miss you. I’ve chosen to keep missing you. Because I really don’t want to become you. And if I miss you, that has to mean that you are not here. That no piece of you is still inside me. It has to mean that. Because books don’t lie.
Sometimes I wish I had been born a bird. I have seen how birds are caught. They use birdhouses that are all wood, welcome and warmth. I am a fish. I will only get a hook. Something cold. Something that will make me bleed. I know that homes don’t really exist. That the warmth I dream about only exists inside books. But why do only birds get to live a lie? I like books. I grew up reading about loving homes. I’m not prepared for the truth. For that disappointing fishhook. I wanted a birdhouse I could call home too.