The dictionary has given us a daisy (BITXILORE), it has told us that it is a precious jewel. And the other word says that we should go play hide-and-seek (GORDE-GORDEKA), but we will leave that to butterfly-winged fairies.
There are some fairies playing hide-and-seek in a field of wildflowers. The other flowers don’t mind letting those fairies hide behind them, but the daisy wants to play. It is rooted in the ground, it can’t run, it can’t hide, but it refuses to be someone else’s hiding place.
There is a fairy that wants to hide behind that daisy. She even offers her jewels to the daisy, but the flower stubbornly refuses. Other fairies try to buy that daisy’s shadow, but the flower refuses them all. Until the last fairy finally asks the question the daisy wanted to hear all along. The fairy asks if the daisy wants to play, and the daisy says yes, yes, yes! The fairy doesn’t waste any time. She pulls that flower up, and flies to hide it somewhere else. The game ends. With the daisy withering before being found. And the fairies can’t agree whether that makes the daisy the winner or not.
If a fairy were to offer me her jewels, I would use them to buy more time. I don’t want my dreams to come true, that would only leave them exposed. To the elements. To all the ugly monsters that enjoy making bright colors fade. I would use those magical jewels to extend my childhood. To have more time to dream beautiful colors, while I am still a child. Before dreaming becomes another monster, another thing that only hurts me.
Fairy jewels? I would use them to buy a castle on a cloud. Where no one could find me. An unbreachable castle, where I no longer felt afraid of the future. Of the choices I make. I would buy the softest cloud, and I would let my imagination run free. Without fear of disillusion or hurt. Without fear of odious comparisons. Because I would never put my feet back on the ground. And there would be nothing to spoil. No reality. Only the beauty I could imagine in my cloud.
I don’t know if the thing I want can be bought with fairy jewels. I don’t want to cry anymore. I want my tears gone. For good. Goodbye. Safe journey. Don’t come back. Sometimes I feel like a daisy, and I don’t want to feel like that anymore. As if my tears were petals, and the answer was written on them. It gives me false hope. I keep expecting a different outcome. But I don’t want that anymore. I need to run out of tears. I need to change the question I ask. The things I ask of my life.
If fairy jewels can really buy anything, if there is really magic in them, I want a mirror. I want to have proof. I don’t want people to keep twisting my words. To keep seeing whatever pleases them most. I want proof that that thing on my face is not a smile. That I am not happy, no matter what others wish to believe to be true. I would buy a mirror that showed, without a shadow of a doubt, that the daisies that grow at the corners of my mouth are pointing down.
A fairy gave me all her jewels. I let her hide behind me, so that she could win her childish game. But these jewels will never fill me with the same kind of joy. What I truly want is to uproot my life. I don’t want to be stuck here anymore. But even if I could, even if I survived, I would still be the same old daisy, no matter where I went.
I didn’t think that I was asking for too much. I didn’t ask to fly. I just wanted to play. For once in my life, I wanted to be something other than a pretty flower. I wanted to run. Against the wind. I wanted to create my own wind. It didn’t matter if I lost the game. I just wanted to be a part of something that made me feel alive. That made me feel seen. But the fairies refused to let me play. They gave me all their jewels. More beauty. Another heavy thing, to prolong my invisibility.
A fairy told me that I was a pretty flower. That beauty was the best hiding place. Because even though everyone expected the ugliness, the monsters that lie underneath, something still made them lower their guard, and trust. Love. Use. The fairy gave me all her jewels. And I was too hurt to refuse. She hid behind me, and the game went on. I didn’t want to be a monster, I didn’t feel like one. But if that was what everybody saw, I feared that a monster was what I would become, one day soon. And it hurt.
I wish those fairies had chosen a different place for their childish game. I wish they had kept fluttering like butterflies, and they had never touched the ground. Never stood still. In place. Like a flower. Like me. Because I have made the connection. I have seen something of myself in them. And when their game comes to an end, when the fairies take wing, it will hurt. More than anything else before. Because I will still be here. And nothing will make me forget the difference between us. The fact that I will never be able to fly. No matter how many magical jewels I wear around my neck.
Like all fairies, I was given a choice. I could have jewels or I could have butterfly wings. I chose the jewels. Because wings are things only adults wear. They are things that are worn during the last stage of an insect’s life, and I still wanted to be a child. I wanted to be pretty. I wanted to be loved. With food. And jewels. And hugs.
I feel betrayed. All this time people made me believe that dreaming and flying were the same thing. But they are not. Children dream. Caterpillars dream. Butterflies like me, we fly. Aimlessly. We flutter. Because we no longer remember how to dream. Because there is nothing else to fill the void. Only that endless sky. And if I had known the truth, I would never have chosen these wings.
Do you know why I wear these jewels? Do you know why I don’t wear wings on my back? It’s because I don’t want to disappear. As soon as I become a butterfly, those wings are the only thing everybody will see. Not the antennae that will help me to find my way in the world. Not the childhood dreams and memories that I will still keep inside my stomach, the ones that will keep me warm from the inside. I don’t want to become only a pair of colorful wings. That’s why I wear jewels around my neck, around my wrists, on my fingers and close to my heart. Because there is more to me.
A flower called me a thief. She said that we fairies stole the wings we wear on our backs. That we stole them from flowers just like her. That our butterfly wings used to be flower petals, and we should give them back. That it wasn’t fair that we got to fly with them, when flowers had to remain deeply rooted in the ground. That flower hurt me with her cruel words. And flying no longer feels like a shared dream.
They plied me with jewels. They gave me everything I could ever want. They made me believe in fairytales. That children live happily ever after, and that’s where the story ends. That there is no need for more. Not wings. Certainly not adulthood. They made me believe that happiness was everything. And I didn’t even notice the exact moment when my wings broke off my back. Because there were too many jewels weighing me down.
Fly. Fly. Fly. Away from everything. Fly. Like the child you will always be. Only your heart matters. You should let it decide. Who you should become. Where you should return. Only happiness matters. And you know that only children know how to feel truly happy. Because their heart knows no bounds, and they still believe in endless blue skies. That’s what I was told, when they gave me my butterfly wings. It was a gift. I have never felt so free in my life. Because these wings felt like I had been given permission to never grow up.
With or without wings, I will always be a fairy. The magic won’t go away. I don’t need wings to feel free. Magic already does that for me. I know that these jewels will buy me almost everything. And every night I sleep like a child. Soundly. Knowing that even if the sky is empty, I won’t be. Because I will wake up still wearing my colorful jewels. And everything I want will still be within my reach.
I don’t hate my wings. I don’t. But I can’t make myself fall in love with them, no matter how hard I try. I grew up believing that one day I would leave my mark in the world. Every night I prayed for beautiful wings. For colorful wings. Ones whose bright colors had never been seen before. Because there was no point in tracing over an existing mark. But the sky is still blue. It will always be blue. It’s impossible to leave a mark in it. And I don’t know what these wings are for anymore.