La zarza da el fruto espinando, y el ruin llorando.
This proverb admonishes people who do good things unwillingly, with tears in their eyes. It was love at first sight, because it also says that blackberry bushes don’t hand over their fruit without using their thorns first. But we don’t associate tears with reluctance. Tears go with pity, because they are the easiest way of convincing someone else to give you what you want.
A little girl went to the forest to pick blackberries. She would have preferred to stay home playing, but she didn’t have another choice. Her mother left a list of all the chores she had to do written on a piece of paper, and the little girl knew that tears only work their magic if they are seen.
In the forest, the little girl found a bush full of blackberries. But they were surrounded by a lot of thorns, and the little girl didn’t want to ruin the sleeves of her pretty dress. Luckily for her, she wasn’t alone in that forest. A bird saw the little girl crying by that bush. The bird asked the little girl why she was crying, and the little girl told him that she had to pick blackberries, but that there were too many thorns and she didn’t want to get hurt. And, as expected, the bird offered to pick those berries for her.
The story has a happy ending. The little girl returns home with a basket full of blackberries. She returns home eating a blackberry, while wiping away her tears. And that bird with thorns buried in his wings stays in the forest. By a bush that now has a smile, where a moment ago there were a bunch of blackberries.
I wish I lived in a world where I didn’t have to protect myself. In a world where I could have beautiful, delicious blackberries, without having to surround myself with thorns. But I know that will never happen. I already know that wishing only leaves a bad aftertaste in my mouth.
Why would I want to cry? I know that tears work for some girls, that just a few tears are enough to get them whatever they want. But I don’t want for anything. People come to pick my blackberries, and I bury my thorns in them. I make them bleed. And those drops are more than enough to keep a smile on my face.
A bird tried to take something from me. I used my thorns to make that bird bleed, I tore its feathers, and that should have been that. I kept my blackberries safe, and the bird limped away. But a part of me wishes I could fly, it wishes I were free. And no amount of blackberries is enough to make that part of me forget, that it will only take a few days for that bird to shed its torn feathers, to replace them with new ones, and return to the sky.
I am glad that my childhood is finally over. That I can finally stop picking blackberries from everyone else, and I can start thinking for myself. I am glad that I can take my time and savor my thoughts. Once they have become ripe, and actually mean something to me. Once they no longer are a pretty birdsong, that I have to blindly keep repeating throughout my life.
Don’t you see the tears in my eyes? Don’t you see them running down my face? What about the empty basket that I hold in my hand? Why haven’t you already filled it with blackberries? How many more tears do I have to waste, before you actually do what you are supposed to do?
Pretty little bird, do I have to spell it out for you? I thought that tears were a language that everyone understood. I want a basket full of blackberries, and you are supposed to pick them for me. Because there are tears on my face, and that is how this magic works.
Why do blackberries have to come at such a high price? All these fake tears will dry up soon enough, but they will still leave a stain behind. Something red. Something ugly, that will stay with me for days to come. It will feel like an eternity, ugliness always does. And I just wish birds would learn to do my bidding at the drop of a single tear.
All these tears, and I only got one blackberry? Just one? How is that fair? There are at least five tears left on my face, shouldn’t I get a blackberry for each one of them?
Sorry, your tears don’t work on me anymore, if you want blackberries, you will have to pick them yourself. I have a new master now. She’s an ocean, made of tears. I would do anything for her. Even become a duck, just to be able to dive to the bottom of the ocean. Because unlike you, she has promised me her heart, in exchange for everything I will do for her.
If I already know that she is using me, you can’t call me naive. The word you should be using is pragmatic. I detest ugliness, and whining gets on my nerves, it doesn’t let me sing in peace. I give her blackberries, because that is the fastest way to shut her up. If she let me, I would give them to her every morning, before the fall of her first tear. But she wants to feel powerful, and I just want to sing.
It hurts. These thorns that are tearing my wings apart hurt so much. But I have to keep going. I have to get that blackberry, and bring it back to her. I can’t complain. I have to endure the pain. Because she is still crying. And she must be hurting, inside, in her heart, in the place where those tears spring from. She must certainly be hurting, more than I am. And I just have to keep telling myself that these thorns are nothing. And she is everything.
I don’t need your pity. You don’t have what I need. I will take this blackberry to her, and then I will lick my wounds. With this sweet taste still on the tip of my tongue. I will make sure not to forget it. I will even keep my torn feathers. I will make a blindfold out of them. So that the next time she cries, I won’t be able to see her tears. And if you want, if you still have it, you can give your pity to her.