ORIGINS: Don’t ask us why, but the left eye of the last character in the original series reminded us of a spiral shell. All that was missing was the hermit crab. The four walls of our home have always been our lifeline, and we thought that any hermit crab would empathize with us. But maybe it wasn’t clear enough. So, we added a clothesline and some laundry. And now we are just waiting for the hermit crab to take the hint and move in.
By the way, you can blame it on the second spiral shell, but if that isn’t an elephant, Corcho doesn’t know what is. And Grendel simply couldn’t resist turning those shells into songbirds. Oh, the irony.
These are my home. I take care of them because they matter, unlike the things I say to you.
I love the smell of fresh air on my soul. Why would I spoil it by speaking aloud?
I don’t need you to remember who I was. Those memories are mine and I don’t need yours.
I am working on improving myself. I don’t have anything to say to you.
I am waiting for the laundry to dry in the sun. I use moments like this to replenish my lungs with fresh air. I close my eyes. That carefully constructed image stays out. And I remember my home. The real me. The one that fits into every nook and cranny perfectly. As naturally as breathing. Without artifice. I don’t know why everybody’s attention seems to be riveted on the heart. That’s not where my truth is. I am all lungs. Upright branches. Gnarled branches. Bursting at the seams. Bare. I know where every leaf goes. My best and my worst. There are no regrets. Only deep-rooted belonging. And if I didn’t have to make a living, I wouldn’t bother with those clothes.
Mine wasn’t a rabbit hole. It was a spiral shell. I was told that life began in the sea, and I felt like going back home. I didn’t fall. I jumped. The laundry stayed where it was. Drip. Drip. Drip. Guilt wasn’t my parting gift. There was no reluctance in that farewell. It felt like a blessing. A trail of teardrops, not just pitiful breadcrumbs, to help me find my way home. And there it was. The garden of roses where I belong. The thorns that had been waiting for my blood. Like family does. Because there is no such thing as love. Take. Take. Take. The tighter the embrace, the dearer, redder, the loss.
I wish I hadn’t walked down that path. Following in those elephants’ footsteps hasn’t done me any good. I am covered in dust. I don’t want to cherish any of those memories, and hand-washing my clothes didn’t work. The dust clings to them. To every fiber of my being. A constant reminder that I have wasted my life. If I had a seashell, I would put everything in it and push play on that washing machine. I would drown in the sea. I would bet everything on that burst of bubbles. Because I have heard that when stars burst, dust follows. And the sea is too big for those memories to still pick me. Life may not give second chances, but I would at least bury my bones in a colorful coral reef.
Can you smell the sunlight on my clothes? It’s a lovely lie, don’t you think? It makes me wish I could believe it. But optimism doesn’t sink into my heart. It’s skin deep and leaves overnight, without saying goodbye. I don’t expect anything from life. There are only dreams in my heart. And I don’t need seashells nor clouds to help me believe them because I don’t want them to be real. They are my escape. And reality would only ruin them.
Why would I make my home from scratch? I am a little hermit crab. I prefer music to the loneliness of silence. That was my heirloom. Something I couldn’t bring myself to call love. Silence. And the suffocating fear that that was all there would ever be to me. All I would ever have to give. More of the same silence. But I heard music coming out of a seashell. And to me it sounded like hope. Because someone had already modeled the home my heart had been longing for. It wasn’t a hand-me-down. I found that seashell lying on the floor, and maybe that is why I fell in love with it. Because it wasn’t intended for me. Unlike that silence, that had my name written all over it.
I was doing the laundry, like I had done countless times before. I still can’t pinpoint the source; it came out of the blue. For the first time I found myself wondering where all the dirt went. All the memories that didn’t belong in a little elephant like me. My skin still wasn’t thick enough. It hurt. Indifference and loneliness should never have been allowed to shape me, and I tried my best to forget. People talk about scars, but that’s just raised skin. I wanted the stains gone. Before they could bleed deeper into my heart. But now I can’t shake the feeling that I am living in a spiral shell. That I have buried myself. In the dirt I washed out. The one I gave a voice to.
It’s not a competition. The sea. Elephants. I don’t care if they have more memories than I do. Life is not fair. The good will always be outnumbered by the ugly and the meaningless. That’s why I believe in quality over quantity. So, if it really were a competition, I would already be leaps and bounds ahead of them. Because the sea only has tear-stained memories and elephants are covered in the dust of those that have walked their path before them.
I may not look like a hermit crab, but that is what I am at heart, where it counts. This is just a spiral shell. Do you really think that I would let the sea define me? These are just four walls. They are no match for my five pairs of legs. All rivers may run into the sea, but I refuse to let someone else’s tears drag me into the past. I know how to stand my ground. I may not be able to lead the life I want, but I won’t let that wash my broken heart away. I will hold onto myself, no matter what.
Do you know what coming of age is, little bird? The child dies, leaving the spiral shell behind, for the many-legged creature that will take its place. But my mind had other plans. It wouldn’t kneel before anyone. Remind me again, little bird, why is it that you sing? Are you trying to fill the sky? Are you trying to forget your hunger? Life has a song too, but it was too tear-stained for my spiral shell’s comfort. It wanted nothing to do with it, and that’s when inspiration struck. A bird stole my shell before an adult could set foot in it. But there were still echoes of the sea clinging to its walls. Do the words delusion and deluge sound alike to you, little bird? Maybe they come from the same root. Who knows. All I can say for certain is that my bird took wing, and to this day I still believe that I am free.
Poor seashell. It was left stranded on the beach, with only memories for company. Such a salty song in the wound, wouldn’t you say, little bird? Silence would have been kinder. But I never expected otherwise from the sea. Have you seen its tides? In and out, they come. Now I want you, now I don’t. Poor seashell, it seems like that callous sea will always own its heart. What do you say, little bird? Should we give that shell a pair of wings to help it forget that heartbreaking song? You know that tideless sky better than I do. Does knowing that you are the one that can’t stay airborne for long hurt more than being pushed away and dragged back into love’s embrace, time after time, would hurt?
I wish I had a say, but I can’t change my heart. Most things there are written in stone, not sand. Sometimes I wish I were a bird like you, I wish I could write everything in the air and nothing hurt. But I will always see loneliness in the moon and happiness in the sun. I am an empty seashell, lying on a shingle beach. I want to sing. I want to fly, following the sun. I want to join your chorus. Dawn. Evening. I need my sleep to be bookended by happiness, not loneliness. But the sea holds the reins of my name. And my heart will always drip with loneliness.
You don’t have enough legs. Don’t lie to me. Don’t offer me hope. A bird like you will never be able to hold onto this spiral shell. You have been born for the sky; fitting molds is beyond you. You would just wear it like a crown, and it would fall off your head at the slightest breeze. And where would that leave me? Broken on the ground. In pieces. Just more salt for the sea.
Bird: There is already a whole sea inside my shell, but this morning I woke up feeling generous. I will squeeze another drop in it, just for you. So, hurry up. Tell me which memory you want to repress, before I have a change of heart. Hurry up! Before I just take wing and forget your name.
Let me think. Which one should I choose? I know! I was raised behind closed doors, among open books. I had to sneak out of the house, and maybe that is why my first impression of the sea wasn’t its waves but my own footprints in the sand. I don’t mind being erased without a trace. I can live with the knowledge that my name will never be printed. But if I have to feel small, I want to be wowed. I want wonder at first sight. You can take that memory, lovely bird. But don’t forget to tell the sea to take my breath away.
Just one? You leave much to be desired, stingy bird. Haven’t you ever heard that genies grant at least three wishes? Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself? How come your seashell can’t hold a candle to their lamps? I can’t believe that all that iridescence was just for show, but at least now I have the perfect memory for you. Fly away, pitiful bird. Make me forget, and you can pretend that we have never met.
I have already been to the end of the road. I have already encountered everything this life has to offer, and I don’t care for a repeat. But I am an elephant, and some journeys are written in stone. I don’t know how you do it, bright bird. I lost my ability to look forward to tomorrow a long time ago. I am beyond hope. It probably doesn’t count as a single memory, but if you could make me forget that road, I would be much obliged. If I could start afresh, I would do my best to treasure my first steps. I would walk with my eyes closed. I would dream, as far as I could, before life caught up with me.
Thank you, kind bird. But it would be of no use. I can handle the overflow. But what I need to forget can’t be traced back to a single source. I can’t rip my heart out of my chest and, anyway, you only accept memories. I can’t blame life. It was the little things. The disappointments that I have amassed over the years and now weigh down my heart are a beach. I don’t have a number for all those grains of sand. And feeding you just one wouldn’t even put a stop to my tears.
The resemblance is there. I won’t let anyone tell me otherwise. The sea doesn’t have a place for me in its heart, and I won’t be haunted by its song. Mark my words, little bird. This beach is where I will be reborn. As the elephant I should always have been. I will make my way. And one day I will hand it down to someone I love. I don’t care if I don’t live on in that child’s heart. There will be a name other than my own engraved in my heart. Unlike the tide, I will never go back on my word. That child’s name will be my grave. And even if my love is bound to be nothing more than dust in her wake, I will at least be buried along with my memories of it.
My seashell is not a whale. Even if I were to hold my breath, I would never see it breaching in the distance, getting ever closer to the horizon, in a childish attempt to catch the setting sun. That’s a gap that cannot be closed. And if I were to wait, I would only sink to the bottom of the sea. No. Being an elephant suits my seashell better. Its back is broad enough not to spill a single drop of the setting sun and replace the horizon, in my eyes, before I go to sleep. I may not have the power to make my dreams come true, little black bird, but I count myself lucky, nonetheless. Because my imagination knows no bounds, and my colors have yet to show me the same dream twice. I still have a long ways to go, before I find myself back where I left my first footprints, and my heart sinks, making me regret not having led a different life.
Have you struck gold, little bird? Have you finally found something worthwhile among all those grains of sand? Someone once told me that the sea was life. I looked for its pulse, and I only saw breaking waves. So, I guess that makes those grains of sand my memories. What’s left when life breaks elephants like me. But you have yet to answer me, little bird. Are gold nuggets even a thing? Can a little moment of happiness really make up for everything else? I ask because I have tried writing in the sand. I have lost count of how many times I have told myself that I am happy, but it never works. I can’t hold onto my own words. Waves break. And all my efforts disappear without a trace.
Don’t be sad, little bird. It’s not your fault. I know that if you could, you would already have rewound time, even if it cost you all your feathers. It’s all right. I will just have to rewrite history. I know where it is stored. Don’t you worry your pretty little head. One day I will steal that seashell. And I will blow. And blow. And blow. Until my echoes reign beyond the horizon. You will see, little bird. Dust won’t color our next sunrise. I will keep a tight rein on my elephant. I won’t let it walk down that old path full of mistakes. You will see. There will be no memories in my lungs when I blow that seashell. Not even hope. Only air. Because our tomorrow deserves better than to be replaced by that past that refuses to stay buried where it belongs.