ORIGINS: Look at the eye of the sixth character in the original series. It’s clearly a blindfolded deer. The blindfold doubles as a nest, and there are two crestfallen little birds on each side, waiting for the food that hasn’t come yet.
It’s right there, in its name. Deer. Dear. Love. Care. There was a whole sky overhead, and she chose to fly. And who am I to blame her? Just another little bird in some nest. But at least she spared me a thought before taking wing. She built my nest in a deer’s head, so that I would have what she could never give to me. And at least the deer tries. Every day I open my beak to a can of worms. And even though it’s not the same as waking up to a dream that still hasn’t left, taking its warmth elsewhere, it’s what the deer has for me. What that bird wished for me. And I am trying to tell myself that it’s the thought that counts. And there is love in my can of worms.
It’s my birthday today. I woke up in my nest, in the head of my deer, and there were a frozen cake and a lonely candle waiting for me. The little white bird says that he can feel the love, that it warms his heart, and that warmth should be more than enough to light the candle and make a wish. But the little black bird says that he can only feel the cold of that cake. However, there are tears streaming down his face, and that has to mean that there is warmth close by. Maybe it is just anger on my behalf. But I would like to think that my little birds care about me. That they wish me all the best. And even if their love is not enough to light this candle and make a beautiful wish come true, at least I won’t allow myself to grow uglier because of it. I will use my breath to say thank you. To my deer. For being here. When others are not. For giving me something, even if it wasn’t handmade. When others just handed me over and flew away.
I try to tell myself that it could have been worse. That they could have built my nest in the hollow of some heartless tree. But they hollowed out a deer’s head, they got rid of every thought that didn’t revolve around me. They reshaped the universe, putting me in the center and erasing themselves with a brush of their wings. They left me in this deer’s care, and for the longest time I thought that I was loved. But the universe is a cold, cold place. And I was the only one giving off warmth. Because I was a child, and I still didn’t know better than to waste it on someone that would never love me back. And sometimes I just wish that they had put me in that heartless tree. That they had left me alone for days on end, with only a microwave for company. Because at least then I would have grown up thinking that there was still warmth in the universe, even if it was far, far away and two stars didn’t want to have anything to do with me. I would have dreamed about other stars. And one night I would have tried to find one that was willing to love me back.
It’s all right, hearts are overrated anyway. I learned a long time ago that penguins may miss the sky, but all they need can be found in the sea. Warmth doesn’t come from love, it comes from our stomachs and the food we put in there. Sure, companionship is nice. But I don’t live in an icy wasteland. I don’t need to join those penguins when they huddle close together trying not to lose their warmth. My nest was in a deer’s head. Someone broke off its antlers to weave my nest, ensuring that I would have no connection to the sky and the only warmth I would ever know didn’t come from someone else’s skin. Canned sardines are more than enough to keep me warm. Because I have nothing to lose, and I never felt the need to huddle close to the deer that kept me fed while I was a child.
I had a key. I used to shine it every morning and every night, without fail. I tried to make it into something pretty and hopeful like a star. But it grew uglier every time I looked at it. Every time I opened and closed that door to more of the same emptiness. The only thing I had in common with the stars was that ugly loneliness, that clung to me and never went away. No matter how many times I replaced my keychain. Because I was a little bird. And the deer that waited for me inside that house, those deer that waited on me hand and foot, felt colder than ghosts to the touch.
I read those words once. Hearth and home. I was a little bird that had been left in the care of a deer, and I couldn’t help falling in love with those words. With that fire. It’s brightness. It’s warmth. I used to daydream about the birds that built my nest. I would have given them everything I had. To have them stay by my side, and pretend that they cared about the flight feathers that had already started to grow all over my wings. But my future couldn’t compete with their sky. I was raised by a succession of deer, and when I left, I didn’t look up. I didn’t need a succession of chimney stacks to corroborate what I already knew. That there are no firebirds. Because the sky’s call is louder than the best of intentions, and families are bound to go up in smoke. Because birds fly away, and love is just a word.
I know that it is a common practice among some snakes and birds, but I never thought that I would find a fawn in a bird’s nest. Maybe I should have expected it. I am a bird that was raised by a deer after all. My bird parents didn’t have love to spare. The sky demanded all their time, and they found someone else to keep me warm. I never used the word love, but at least that deer fed me and asked about my days. And who knows, maybe that fawn will be all right without the word love too. I have seen the stars on its back, and maybe the cold of outer space will be more than enough for that fawn, that imprinted on the sky the day it was born and only has eyes for its own dreams.
Sure, I was raised by a deer that couldn’t have cared less about me. She never made eye contact with me, she kept her heart out of my reach, but I ate warm food every day of the week, and nobody can say that she didn’t do her job. I didn’t need that deer to help me act out my childish fantasies. I didn’t want her help. The house was full of books. I just needed someone to teach me to read, and my imagination did the rest. I spent my childhood flying from one perfect family to another. And disappointment stayed on the ground, far away from my childhood and me. Because I will have more than enough time to familiarize myself with it once I grow up and my imagination doesn’t do its job anymore.
I don’t need thousands of stars lighting up my dreams, there is only one thing I want when I grow up. I want to love someone else. I want to care about someone other than myself, about something other than the sky. I was a little bird in an empty nest. I used to pace back and forth, waiting always waiting, for a worm. For a crumb of affection. For the few minutes that should have been mine every day. And then I stopped. I looked at the blue emptiness of the sky, and I knew that that would become my life too. But I don’t want my love to only be the food in someone else’s stomach or the roof over their head. I want more than a few minutes. But right now, I don’t even know how I will manage to scrape those.
What do I know about love? Not much. I am still a little bird that can’t stomach looking at the sky. A little bird, with tears falling down its face, looking at the ground. I hate wings. I want chains, I want roots. A hug that can’t be undone. I want someone by my side when I need it most. But that is not how this life works. I have been told that stomachs growl louder than tears. That hunger takes precedence over loneliness. And maybe I would know something about love if that were true, if black and white were the only colors in the world. But I know that there are more. Some are called dreams. Others are called selfishness. I have even heard about indifference. And all I can say is that if I loved a little bird, I would at least try to keep all those other colors buried in the ground. Out of its sight. To give my little bird a beautiful memory or two.
I spent my childhood wishing the sky was full. So full that it left no room for what-ifs and make-believes. But I heard the word love somewhere, and, like a worm, I still haven’t been able to get rid of it. I have imagined warmth; I have imagined beauty. I spent my childhood putting stars in the night. Small dots. Smaller than a grain of salt. But tears were all I had, and my loneliness kept conjuring shared moments, full of what I wish love could have been. And now the time has come to take wing, to leave this nest and find my way in the world. And I just wish I had never heard the word love. Because the sky is an empty, blue thing, and I already know that what I need can’t be found there.
Love? That’s the thing children are made of, when they are all laughter and white-hot joy. Before they experience life, and realize that in this universe darkness and cold outnumber the stars. But it’s all right. I still have faith. Someday, somewhere, penguins will find a way to make the sun rise in the middle of the night. If only they keep huddling together, I believe that someday their warmth will be more than enough to keep the darkness out of the sight of at least one child. And I will have proof, that love can survive, even if it is vastly outnumbered.
I didn’t leave with much. Nothing to my name, just one lesson learned. That I was a needy child, and that hasn’t changed just because I have grown up. But the world is full of birds, that have more important things to do with their time than love somebody else. And I can only hope that this loneliness will dull with time. Or that the wind will start eroding it once I take wing and join everybody else in the sky.
Does this count as an emotional scar if I never cried? I never felt loved, but I was fed and I wasn’t cold during winter nights. The birds that built this nest didn’t encourage my dreams, but they never forbade me to spend my time as I saw fit. I learned everything that I would need to fly one day. All in all, I can’t really say that I regret my childhood. Because I got something out of it, something that will probably outlast any love they could have ever felt for me.
Do I wish things could have been different? Sure. I wish I had never shed a single tear. I wish I had never needed anything from them or anybody else. But I was a child. There was a time when I needed a touch of warmth. I have already outgrown the word love, just like I have already outgrown this nest. I am ready for the world. My skin couldn’t be any colder to the touch. And I just wish I didn’t still remember how needing to be loved feels.
To tell you the truth, it’s a relief. Tomorrow I will leave this nest for good, and I won’t have to say goodbye, because there won’t be any bird there to hear those words. I won’t have to feel bad for moving on. For making a life for myself, and not including them. Tomorrow I will fly far, far away, without anything weighing my wings down. Not love. Not gratitude. And certainly not guilt. Because I will only be leaving behind the same emptiness that kept me company all my childhood.
Be a dear and find me a little bird. I don’t want to waste my love on someone that won’t even reach for the stars. I already know what disappointment tastes like, and I refuse to spend the rest of my life trying and failing to find the right words to comfort someone else. My life won’t be defined by that awful taste. I will love a little bird that one day will fly high in the sky. And he will keep flying, until my tongue forgets that taste and I learn to love my life.
Keep averting your gaze. Don’t ever make eye contact. Don’t ever let someone else into your heart. The stars are waiting for you. You were born with a map on your back. And you deserve better than becoming just another deer trapped in someone else’s headlights. You were born for the stars, under them. Not for love, and certainly not out of it. That should be your proof, if you ever needed one. People lie to themselves; they settle for things that will never be described as a dream. But the stars don’t want you to be like them. They are the only light worthy of your love.
Have you ever heard the words Out of sight, out of mind? Well, that’s not the love I want. I want a love that takes over and makes my heart beat, even when the other person isn’t around. I want something unforgettable, that keeps singing in my ear. Something that hurts, and keeps making its presence known. I probably was born for unrequited love, from stars that will forever be out of reach. And I don’t see a reason not to keep it that way.
Give it time. The stars have already disappeared from the night sky. It won’t be long before love disappears from people’s hearts too. Who knows, maybe it will be the first step to a better world, since so many horrible things are done out of love.