ORIGIN: Way back when, we made leopards out of seal pups and ice cream cones. They were feeling lonely, so we brought them some friends. Dolphins made out of crescent moons and rose thorns.
Sometimes I wonder if the Night is a sea of black roses, and crescent moons are dolphins with thorns for fins, unable to stray far from home. I wonder what those dolphins breathe. And even though I am aware that silence reigns in space, I grew up wishing upon shooting stars. I can’t bring myself to admit that my wishes went unheard. It would be akin to dousing my twinkling heart with tears. So, I just close my eyes at night and wonder whether those dolphins breathe hope or desperation. But I am afraid that, in my heart, I already know the answer.
Two plus two equals four. That’s the extent of my mathematical brain. When I say that dolphins remind me of quarter moons, I picture crescents, not halves. Numbers confuse me. It’s like falling into the heart of a rose. Into the very center of a spiral maze that’s plagued by dead ends. But I am not easily disheartened. All it takes is a carefree laugh. A dolphin’s leap and a splash of white. To erase all the lines and set me free.
Roses are red and thorns draw blood. I keep waiting for the petals to fall and the spell to break. For the sharks to come back to their senses and go for my throat. But moonlight says that my stomach is playing tricks on me. That there’s no feeding frenzy and those thorns belong to dolphins, not sharks. And I want to believe her, but it’s not that simple. I have always been single-minded in my pursuit of love. I’ve had my heart broken, and it’s neither moonlight nor a gentle petalfall. What comes after the bloom is a boom. Heartbreak is an explosion. The fragments resemble bloodstained teeth because you can’t be the only one that’s hurting. And no matter what moonlight says, I know that thorns double as shark teeth.
If I were a bottle-nosed dolphin, I wouldn’t deliver a piece of paper to the moon. Handwritten words are all well and good, but even if you put ink to paper with the best intention in the world, others are bound to read between the lines, looking for their worst fears. My gift to the moon would be a white rose. I would strand myself and let her keep all the thorns. So that she could prick her finger and bleed light on her loneliest nights.
Dolphins swim in the sea, the moon swims in the night. But there has to be somewhere they can meet halfway. Who knows, maybe that was the purpose of roses all along.
I have been cursed with a heightened sense of smell. Sea breezes threaten tears to my eyes and lovey-dovey roses stab me in the chest, putting pangs of loneliness where my heartbeats should be. I don’t feel like swimming today, and tomorrow isn’t looking any more promising. But drowning isn’t an option. I have to swim somewhere. The sea is calling my dolphin’s name, and I guess I will have to hope for the best. As long as I stay submerged, I should be impervious to those tears.
The stars can keep the night. I need a change of air, and those roses smell so sweet that I can almost taste them. I don’t know about you, but my moon equates loneliness with cold, empty spaces. And in the absence of a hot bowl of soup, those roses will have to do. Because I am not a star with a heart of gold and a brain full of dreams. To me, love starts in the stomach, and that is what I have to fill.
Swimming in that sea, among those waves, is slowly killing my dolphin. Look at my dolphin’s dorsal fin. Look at those white-crested waves. Going against the grain takes its toll. My dolphin is damned if it does, and damned if it doesn’t. You might think that the solution to all its problems would be to turn around and swim against the tide, with its dorsal fin facing in the same direction as the waves. But that is no way to live. No. I will take those roses. I will take the thorns they are offering me and hope that my dolphin finally feels like it fits in.
No, thank you. I will stay where I am. Where I would be missed if one night I were to disappear without a trace. I have never understood why people say that the moon is lonely. That word belongs to the stars. I don’t have a number for them, but I know that if any one of them were swallowed by the crowd, nobody would notice. The same can’t be said about the moon. The waves would mourn, the seven seas would reverberate with her loss. And to me, that would be proof enough that I was loved.
A nightgown of roses and a pair of dolphin slippers. That’s all you need to hitch a ride to a sweet, fragrant dream. However, if you want to avoid being stranded in dreamland until the roses wilt, don’t go forgetting the moon. You should always wear a nightcap to bed. Something that knows its tides and you can trust to wake you up.
I am too old for this. There comes a time in every child’s life when their mother knows not to dress them up anymore. Yet here I am. Dressed in a dream I didn’t choose, one I never asked for. Thank you, society.
Your definition of mercy isn’t the same as mine. Mercy would be waking me up from the empty darkness of sleep. But I have never had that misfortune. I have never found myself adrift in that darkest of open seas. I always wash ashore, where countless roses in full bloom welcome me with open arms. For that very reason, my dreams deserve my undivided attention. They deserve my devotion. My eyes. Until the last rose wilts at my feet, pushing me back into the darkness whence I came.
Thank you for the lesson, wise moon. You are right, it’s better to die young. Before the dream turns into a nightmare. While the roses smell of promises. Without giving anybody, not even myself, a chance to break them into pieces. Leaving only choices I can’t stand the sight of, to build a future I am not looking forward to.
It’s fine. Perfectly fine. Sleep is an ocean and aphids can’t hold their breath forever. My roses are safe. If those bugs so much as open their mouths to take a bite of my dreams, they will drown even faster. What? I don’t know what you are talking about. What do spiracles have to do with anything? I’m going to sleep. And that’s your cue to say “Sweet dreams. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
I would be lying if I said that your intentions are written all over your face. You can blame your nose for giving them away, little witch. Here, have a broom. Since you are itching to welcome a dolphin into your employ, this will help you get rid of your old familiar along with the dust and any other residual particles of magic on the floor. Think of it as a parting gift. Or compensation for services rendered. Just the bare minimum to avoid any hard feelings.
Black cat: I would like a challenge, something to remind me that there is blood running through my veins. You enabled my laziness. And I would like to remember the thrill of the chase. Give me a mouse that will make me work for it.
Toad: Cliches are cliches for a reason. Turn me into a prince.
Black bird: There’s no need to turn back time. I say let bygones be bygones. The sun can keep what it took from me. Any color will do. Just give me one. Black is the color of sleep, and it’s high time I woke up. I refuse to sleepfly through the next chapter of my life.
Spider: I don’t need anything from you. I already know where the door is. Just destroy my web and forget that I was ever here. Knowing your heart, it should come easily to you. No magic spell needed to help you along.