ORIGIN: He loves me, he loves me not. What they say is true, you learn something new every day. We didn’t know that the heart of a typewriter is called a daisy wheel, but now we do. Let’s play.
If it’s a choice between gathering dust and pushing up daisies, typewriters don’t even hesitate.
There are three daisies sticking out of the ground. The mound is shaped like a wolf’s head, and I know who is buried there. What I don’t know is why there are only three daisies, when there should be four.
I went to sleep and when I woke up the next morning daisies were nothing more than a forgotten dream.
The petals of a flower that had lost its lower half. Its negativity, all the petals that only knew how to say no.
The duck told him that the flowers wanted to have their petals replaced with feathers. That they wanted to fly, to feel the wind in their wings while they were still alive.
A typewriter is nothing without its daisywheel. Some letters are missing, and they spell something disheartening. Because this isn’t like plucking petals, where the flower gets to keep its heart at the end of the game. Those letters are the heartbeat of their typewriters, without them there are only blank pieces of paper. And it only takes one missing letter to help that white hopelessness along.
A-F-I-R. FAIR. Something life will never be.
A-F-I-L-M-Y. FAMILY. The perfect example of false advertising.
E-I-M-O-P-R-S. PROMISE. Thank you for being upfront with me. If you have given your word, no one can expect you to keep it. It should be obvious.
C-E-M-R-Y. MERCY. Isn’t synonymous with blessing. Helplessness doesn’t beckon to kindness. There is no helping hand. Only stomping feet.
Your logic is easy to follow. Daisy’s real name is Bellis Perennis, and you want to immortalize something too. So you pluck and eat some of the keys of your typewriter. That way, they won’t ever be used again, and they will only live on in a word of your choosing.
Don’t drag your feet. Don’t just stand still, letting life pass you by. Hop to it. All it takes is a little bit of hope.
I see no harm in leading a charmed life. It’s not a dream, and I don’t have to prepare myself for the worst. I won’t be waking up with tears in my eyes.
Songbirds are a delight, but most of them have a very small repertoire. They are good company for an afternoon or two, but they would make for a pretty boring eternity.
I don’t know about courage, honor and readiness to help the weak, but I want to live by a code too. That is what chivalry means to me. I want to better myself. And I know that a rival, not a friend, would bring out the best in me.
Birds don’t let anyone encroach on their sky. That’s where birds keep their freedom, and everything else has to go. Daisies, ink and pieces of paper, before they make good on their threat.
Are you happy now? Is this what you would call a cloudless sky? There isn’t a daisy petal in sight, not even their sunny hearts. Emptiness as far as the eye can see. I can’t hear myself think. If this is your definition of freedom, you should have kept it to yourself.
You were right, little bird, those daisies had to go. They knew how to cajole words from my fingertips. But we don’t like birdcages, do we, little one? You are a story that is meant to fly. You deserve to unfold in the sky that is my mind. Where nothing is final, and the last word will always belong to you. Ink should never be put to paper. Every time someone does that, somewhere, a bird loses its freedom.
I won’t put the blame on you. It was only a matter of time, you are a bird after all. Your need to be free gave you wings, but the sky only looks blue from the inside of this birdcage called Earth. That color has an end, even if it isn’t in sight, and sooner or later you were bound to feel trapped and lash out. I hate having a Muse too. I want to break free of her grasp, and never be fed crumbs ever again. But you have to pick your battles, little bird. Now, let’s pick up those pieces and try to put your Muse back together.
Liar. You call this freedom? The tear stains under my eyes call you a liar. But my growling stomach agrees with you, so, I guess I will have to forgive you. For not telling me that birds only look down when they fly. Never up. Never at the stars. That’s how I grew up. Looking up. At everything I could become. For the longest time I didn’t know what my feet looked like. But birds don’t dream about the future while they fly. They only look for food. The sky is nothing more than the here and now.