ORIGINS: Look at the prop of the sixth character in the original series. That hat (times two) reminded us of a lily pad, only what should have been a moon-white flower happens to be a pierrot. Waterlilies will forever be paired with breadcrumbs in our hearts, and that just happens to be what pigeons like to be fed. What a coincidence. Everything has come full circle. Because, if we are not mistaken, pierrots can’t help but love pigeons.
Forget the moon, sorrowful child. Waterlilies are white too, and at least they know the taste of tears. Give it time, one of them is sure to take pity on you and float into your arms.
If you knew me at all, you would know that I am not looking for pity. Silence. That’s what I need. Light that won’t make my ears bleed. Sunlight burns the skin, and I don’t want to turn to dust yet. So, moonlight is my only choice because this sorrow has to go. But a tear-stained waterlily would only bring it back to life, adding its own sorrow to mine, and I can’t have that. I can’t let someone else’s sorrow drown out my own. What I need is the solitude of that echoless moon.
That’s easy for you to say. If I didn’t know better, I would say that you are a crestfallen bird that has only ever known the inside of a cage. You don’t even know in which direction a waxing crescent moon points. Left or right. It’s all the same to you. If you can still find air to sing, you don’t know what true sorrow is. But I do. And it doesn’t taste of tears. So, I don’t see how I can take comfort from a waterlily that probably has led the same sheltered life as you have.
I never thought of it that way, but there is some truth in your words. The points of the crescent moon are not the thorns of a rose, but if I were to hug the moon, I would feel a prick. I would bleed. But not out. That sorrow, that is worse than any thorn could ever hope to be, would stay stuck in my heart for the rest of my life. I would be beyond comfort, and that is not what I want. So, I will take the waterlily you are offering me, thank you very much. I will hug it tight, until I squeeze the last drop of comfort out of all that white. And I will have nothing to worry about. Because I know where waterlilies keep their thorns, and I have no use for the color green.
What good would that waterlily be to me? It’s white, sure, but that doesn’t make it a tissue. I can’t use it to wipe away my tears. It isn’t a blank piece of paper. I can’t use it to write my future from scratch. Sorrow is not an easy thing to forget. It cuts through to the bone. It runs deep. Deeper than water could ever hope to reach. That’s why crying doesn’t help. And, anyway, most things you will experience in this life aren’t for you to write.
It’s that time of the month. Moonlight as far as the eye can see. Something borrowed. Something old. So much blue. The color of the hottest flames. Aren’t you going to tell me what’s burned in your mind, sorrowful child?
It’s been too long since she became someone new. She stuck like that. And if it was unavoidable; if time had to stand still, I would have preferred a sliver of moonlight. The thinnest smile. But she made no effort to lie. She didn’t care. She couldn’t. Blue is a sickness, I know. But I am not plastic anymore. These are the synonyms that will follow me to my grave. And I just wish she hadn’t had a hand in pairing new with worse.
Nothing can be heard in space, but I read somewhere that moonlight is to sunlight as tears are to laughter. And I can’t wash those words out of my mind. My laughter can go unheard for all I care. I can feel it in my chest, louder than my heartbeat, and that’s good enough for me. But tears shouldn’t be allowed to highlight loneliness. It’s bad enough that I have had to beg; moonlight shouldn’t fall on deaf ears. I don’t need that knowledge drowning my heart.
They were the sun; I was their little moon. They loved me with all their hearts and only asked one thing of me. That I pay it forward. And I don’t know what to call this bittersweet taste in my mouth. Because, growing up, I always thought that I loved them too. But apparently a child’s love doesn’t count as payment. All it can ever be is a gift. Because it’s genuine and cannot be put into words.
I want to cry, but I can’t. It doesn’t rain on the moon. The only thing that falls is moonlight. I have heard it described as something magical. But my sorrow isn’t here for someone else to play with it. I want to cry. I need a visceral response. Not handpicked words.
You should count your blessings, my waterlily. Time is not a lake. It’s a river, and there is a chance that you will flow into the sea. No anchor lasts forever. And your sorrow is no exception to the rule. At the end of the night, even pierrots wash off their make-up.
I won’t lie. I would have preferred a lake. I have grown accustomed to my sorrow, and I don’t know how I would live without it. I am scared of unfamiliar surroundings. I don’t need to feel lost on top of everything else. If I were a pierrot, I would sleep with my make-up on. I would tuck myself in it and pray I never woke up to a different nightmare.
What makes you think that the sea will be kinder to me? Have you ever been to the sea? Have you ever bothered to look at it? It won’t welcome me with open arms. Waves don’t pull. They push. Back. White make-up. That’s what they are. And when they crash, the paint chips are quick to disappear. The moon hasn’t met a pierrot she hasn’t rejected. What did you call my waterlily stem? An anchor? If you had looked, you would know that even if I were to weigh anchor, I would never be able to leave my sorrow behind.
Hope. There is always hope. I won’t be a pierrot forever. Sooner or later I will outgrow this make-up. River. This is a river. And I will drift away. I will fall in love with something whiter than the moon. Waves crash. Foam is ever-changing. I might not succeed at first. But hope tells me that sorrow can be overwritten. Sooner or later I will find the right words, and the moon will pale by comparison.
Who cares about rivers and lakes? It’s not the make-up I am worried about. Whoever said that clothes don’t make the man never wore a pierrot collar around his neck. I try to choke back my tears, but sorrow never stops rippling out of my throat. You say that I am a waterlily, but it’s not true. What I wouldn’t give to trade my collar for a lily pad. To keep my head above water and forget the taste of tears.
A full moon. A blank piece of paper. Write to your heart’s content. Whatever crosses your mind. No pressure.
If my freckles were seeds, I would feed them to the birds. I hate what-ifs. I hate the color green. But the sun doesn’t care about anybody but itself. And I would like to get rid of this warmth, before hope clouds my vision.
If I were a whale, I wouldn’t slap my tail. I wouldn’t make waves. I would hold my breath. Until the last drop of seawater had trickled down my skin. And only then would I empty my lungs. Because my imagination is mine, and I am not interested in letting anybody else redefine those clouds.
What do you want from me? Laughter. Tears. Screams. If pressure didn’t build up, I wouldn’t have to resort to words. I would just live happily in my thoughts. But I wasn’t there when the first star burst. I like curiosity. I could have understood ownership. But I am afraid that it was just plain old loneliness. And it won’t be long before I too reach that point of no return.
I don’t like things that move at a snail’s pace. Childhood is too short. Or at least it used to be. Let me rephrase. Innocence is too short. And I don’t much care for stragglers that just won’t grow up. I intend to make the most of my sense of wonder. But once it’s gone, it’s gone. I refuse to outlive it, clinging only to the worst parts of what it means to be a child.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s a beautiful waterlily, but what I wish to know is the ugly truth that’s rooted beneath the water’s surface. Deep down. In your heart.
If you want an easy prey, look no further than a lonely creature.
Treat others the way you want to be treated. Don’t make me laugh. There is no such thing as give-and-take in this life, at least not where basic human decency is concerned. And I wasn’t put on this earth to watch somebody else eat the fruits of my labor while I starve to death.
If you care, disappointment is unavoidable. But at least it’s better than the alternative. Which is remaining detached from life, not expecting anything from yourself or anybody else.
Don’t let that waterlily fool you, I was only raised for fair weather. For happiness and whatever pleases me. Do friends really weather storms together? Don’t get me wrong, it would make for a nice dream, but that’s just because you can’t feel any pain there. In real life, most smiles vanish into thin air before the first raindrop grazes the corner of the mouth.
I’m already familiar with sorrow, you don’t have to play-act it for me. What I would like is to get acquainted with joy. So, why don’t you bare your heart and show me what the roots of a smile sound like?
It takes two to make one. You should be glad. That has to mean that you only got the best parts.
Let me think. It’s on the tip of my tongue. If only I hadn’t been born far-sighted. How about this? The sun is always shining behind the clouds.
The greatest gift someone can give you is loving you unconditionally.
Someone else might have written the beginning of your story, but the end is yours and only yours to write. You are free. Like a bird. So, don’t go handing the quill over to life.
My bad. I thought that it was obvious, but it seems that I have to put it into words. Let’s try again, shall we? Only this time try and tell me something I can actually believe.
Catnap.
Tickling.
Sugar.
Company.
Empty-handed Pierrot: Wouldn’t you rather have the real thing?
Pierrot holding picture: Not really, no. This is the only phase of the moon that fits the void in my chest. I don’t need anybody else’s sorrow on top of mine; they can keep their truths and their lies. What I need are smiles that can rise above my tears.
Empty-handed Pierrot: I’m lonely.
Pierrot holding picture: I know.
Empty-handed Pierrot: The waterlilies in your picture look like stars.
Pierrot holding picture: I know.
Empty-handed Pierrot: I wish I could reach for the chain. To pull the plug and watch the darkness of space spiral down the drain. Leaving only the stars behind to bury the moon in the tightest embrace.
Pierrot holding picture: I know.
Empty-handed Pierrot: I have run out of tears. But I didn’t even put a dent in the sorrow that’s piling up, like dust, inside me and is slowly burying me alive.
Pierrot holding picture: I don’t know if it will bring you any comfort, but I ran out of waterlilies before I could reach the moon. This wave won’t rise any higher, and now I am just counting the minutes until it crashes down.
Empty-handed Pierrot: Thank you for trying, but loneliness was never my affliction. Sorrow will always be the loudest voice. It cannot be drowned out. And it is already more company than I will ever need.
Empty-handed Pierrot: I see. You can finally say that you have touched the moon. That picture is your proof. How long has it been since those tears deluged your heart? Did you at least think twice before deluding yourself? Or did you just jump in with both feet, hoping to put an end to the pain?
Pierrot holding picture: Don’t look at me like that. One day you will follow in my footsteps. You can only live so long wanting something you can never have. Giving up is a basic human instinct. It’s called self-preservation.
Empty-handed Pierrot: Then I guess lying is an instinct too. Because you couldn’t just give up. You had to take that picture first.
The pigeon cooed, and somebody fed it crumbs of moonlight. I didn’t look at his face. I wasn’t interested. I am not infested by love. I will never understand the lengths he is willing to go to. I am just a homely girl. His foolish proof of love was never meant for me. And, anyway, I may not have wings, but I have my own two hands. I can feed myself, and I prefer the taste of waterlilies. There is still an ounce of innocence in me. And I don’t need to ruin its aftertaste by trying to take advantage of somebody
I see no roots. If there is a birdcage, it must be very big because I can spread my wings and breathe to my heart’s content. My pigeon has never been fed stale bread, only the whitest waterlilies, and that has probably colored my perception. There’s a difference between loving and being loved and, as luck would have it, I happen to fall into the latter category. I have nothing but pity for those who fall in love and only get crumbs in return for the moon. I could never follow in their footsteps. But, as the saying goes, to each their own.
Get out of my way! You may be as white as the moon, but you aren’t fooling anyone. I have already seen proof of your stone-cold heart, and I want nothing to do with it. I am still a child. I don’t have to look any further than tonight. I don’t care if my stomach growls. Let it collapse in on itself. Once those echoes are dead and buried, I will have more room to store what I really need. Love. A waterlily that should never run out of petals.
There’s barely anything left of the waterlily he gave to me. One, two, maybe three bites of white-hot devotion. And then I will just throw away that last bit of green. I don’t much care for the taste of hope. I prefer certainty. The moon, with its clockwork heart. Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change. My pigeon still knows how to coo. And he has already gone to fetch me another waterlily.
“Remember me,” said the lonely moon to the water’s surface.
“Forget you ever knew us,” said the star-shaped waterlilies to that same water’s surface. “We are ready to move on. A bright burst. And then only stardust. We are ready to become someone else’s flesh and bone.”
There are no stars left in the sky. Nowadays people are riveted to different lights. Poor moon. It’s as if she were stuck under somebody’s fingernail. She can’t hide behind the clouds. Ignored, she feels that pain in her white, white bones. She isn’t a waterlily. There is no stem, there are no roots keeping her on the water’s surface. Those waterlilies have replaced the stars and claimed the night for themselves. And even on the water’s surface, the moon feels left out.
The pierrot saw it once. A pair of star-crossed lovers brought together by a bridge of birds. But there are no stars left, and he doesn’t have any birds at hand. He has little choice. Waterlilies will have to do. The pierrot reaches for the moon. But too much white has seeped into his bones. We are not talking about make-up anymore. His loneliness isn’t something that can be removed with a caress or a kiss or two.
The pierrot won’t waste any more tears wishing upon the stars. A little bird has told him that some lily pads have thorns, they can’t be all that different from teeth, and the pierrot won’t entrust his last wish to anybody else. Something green will feed on his tear-stained reflection. It will feed on the moon’s reflection. And the pierrot can only hope that sharing the same grave will finally put an end to his loneliness.