ORIGINS: Maybe we were desperate? The prop of the third moon was a bat, and we thought that it would be nice to use it as a mask and look at the world through its ears.
If only I could find my way back to any other time. I miss the songs that are painted in my memories. Nothing compares with them, not even the blood running through my veins right here and now. It tastes like dust. It makes me want to walk into the sun. But I still remember my songs. There is a happy bat living in my memories. And I would never do that to him.
Bells? I am a fox, there were no bells on my wedding day. The raindrops had just turned into ghosts and the sun was shining brightly, it was a perfect day. I had no regrets, there was nothing to wash off with tears. I had never been so happy, and I didn’t need music in my ears. Do you know why? Because my happiness wasn’t a lie, and there was nothing for me to drown out and try to rewrite.
The cave where I used to sleep through my winters didn’t have its own built-in lullaby. If there ever were any dreams inside that cave, they must have fallen prey to its darkness long before I was born. Long before I was given a name and put to sleep in that cave, because otherwise my name would have been a wish and I would have had at least one song that encouraged me to dream. But my childhood was plagued by unbearable silence. And I just wish I could have slept inside a gramophone. I just wish I hadn’t been so alone in my sleep.
In the sty where I grew up there was a pig named Persephone. We weren’t close friends, we never exchanged kisses on the forehead and pretended to care about each other’s dreams. But I always thought that if her name had been mine, I would have done things differently. That I wouldn’t have left to spread spring somewhere already touched by the sun. No. I would have stayed in Hell, and at least once every year tried to bring hope to those who needed it the most.
Where did my bat go? I feel lost without him. My blood is no match for this silence. My skin is already cold to the touch, and soon it will be pale beyond repair.
My fox went on his honeymoon a little while ago. But I am alright. It hasn’t started raining yet, there is still a little bit of sunlight left. It may not be pure, unadulterated joy, but I can settle for contentment.
My bear is gone. He didn’t wake up after his winter sleep. I tried turning on the lights, I tried whispering beautiful words in his ear. I thought that if I left a trail of breadcrumbs for him my bear would follow it back to me. Something warm. Something that smelled of love. But my bear didn’t wake up. And that can only mean one thing. He must have finally found a dream.
My pig is not here, he couldn’t stay by my side anymore. I was too happy. I was too sad. Too lovesick. Too angry. There was just too much mud to wallow in, and my pig couldn’t take it anymore. So, he left. But not before taking a little bit of everything that I had, and telling me that he would make sure to share it with those poor, unfortunate souls that didn’t have enough.
I wasn’t always blind. Do you know what I miss more than anything else? Sunrises, when the world was bathed in blood as far as the eye could see. When there was wonder in the air, and all of us had so much potential. Before the blood dried, trapping us, and the world laughed, saying: This is as far as you go, no more change for you.
I don’t mind being blind. If it means that my memories don’t change, that they won’t be rewritten, robbing me of all that I once felt, I have no problem with letting someone else keep my eyes. I would even be willing to let him keep all my words, just to be sure.
Are you saying that I am blind? That the world is full of dreams, just like it is full of air, and I am the one that cannot see any of them? I am sorry, but that doesn’t make me feel better. I would like the world to be a beautiful place. I would rather life wasn’t ugly to the point of needing dreams just to make it bearable. But I have to live with myself. So, if there is a choice, I would prefer not to be ugly. I would rather live in a dreamless world.
What is there to miss? Not having to watch the mud dry up is a blessing. When I was a little pig, I could feel everything. Joy. Sorrow. Rage. Fear. Everything made me feel something. That is how I knew that I wasn’t alone, that I wasn’t dead. But even little pigs have to grow up some day. I would have liked nothing more than to stay, there, wallowing in the mud. But there was never a choice. And I am glad that my eyes are gone.