ORIGIN: No matter how you look at it, that’s an angel. A lump in the throat of an hourglass. We are running out of time. Guardian angels only have eyes for children, adults are on their own. The owl says that death is still a ways away.
That owl is my birthplace. But I didn’t fall, I flew the coop. Angels aren’t born to do Death’s dirty work. We have wings. Flying is our calling. But swifts, with their scythe-like wings, are more suited to the job. Death should headhunt them and leave us alone.
What’s there to miss? I might be rudderless, but I’m not the slightest bit homesick. Reaping souls is a thankless job. Angels like me toil day and night, but Death takes all the credit. Frankly, having a purpose in life is overrated, and I don’t feel guilty about leaving.
I remember being blissfully happy in my formative years. If only my wings had been as oblivious as me. My bones broke, and the healing process started behind my back. I saw nothing wrong, but a conscience had already started to form. I can’t fly on misaligned wings. What I did will follow me to the grave. And I won’t lie, I just wish Death had nipped that conscience in the bud.
Calm down? My wings resemble a butterfly! I should have been a guide. All paper-thin smiles and professional detachment. Clocking in, clocking out, and living my life. Death had no right to make a reaper of me! The scythe-like beak of that owl might have been close at hand, but there is blood on my hands, and I should have had a say.
My thoughts on mercy? It’s a bird’s-eye view. An angel looking down from on high. But there are rules, protocol has to be followed to a tee. Rain might come uncalled, but angels only answer prayers.
Angels might be instruments, but not everyone can tug at our heartstrings. Taking pity on you might be in my job description, but I only respond in kind. If you don’t work your fingers to the bone, don’t expect my heart to bleed for you.
You don’t see compassion in my eyes? Why would you? I am an angel, a servant. I wasn’t given a heart, I was programmed. Complain about my bedside manner if that makes you feel better, I will just get the job done.
There is a reason angels of death have butterfly wings. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, what awaits us is the ever-dark stomach of an owl. We are held accountable for our actions; Death doesn’t shoulder the blame. Owls regurgitate our wings, and there goes our chance at forgiveness.
A pair of animals sought shelter under an angel’s wings. Need I remind you that two’s company, three’s a crowd? The outcome is plain as day. You don’t need an owl to foretell it.
The wolves can’t breathe. There’s darkness in their mouths, and it has grown teeth. Castigation. Flagellation. Every other word finds fault with them. If only feathers could soothe self-inflicted wounds.
Dust to dust doesn’t apply to fish. It’s called marine snow, and it falls for days. Weeks. Months. Snow should melt. It should be snow to sea. But the bottom of the sea gathers particles of dead fish. There is no peace. No end to homesickness. If I were a fish, I also would seek comfort in the wings of someone who understood my worst fear. It’s not fair, but there is no dandelion fluff to air either.
The rabbits are sick and tired of carrots and sticks. I’m not getting cute with you. There’s a saying about goose and gander, and donkeys and rabbits share the same ears. So, what’s good for a donkey should be good for these rabbits. But that’s beside the point. They want to be left to their own devices. Poor rabbits, no one has told them that angels are known to intervene in human affairs.
If you roll into a ball, you miss out on life. These hedgehogs would rather an angel took them under its wing. They won’t be partaking, but at least they will get to sightsee.
Down: Apparently not all hourglasses are full of sand.
Up: I see.
Down: Mercury can also be used to measure the passing of time.
Up: The planet or the liquid metal?
Down: Either. Both. Your guess is as good as mine. No one would blame you for mistaking Mercury’s cratered surface for the Moon’s. Everyone knows that sunlight is golden and moonlight is silvery, it shares its color with mercury.
Up: Your point?
Down: It boils down to the Moon. Under the watchful eye of that owl, I cannot help but feel like I am wasting my life.
Down: Deserts used to be seas, and it’s the thought that counts. Time is dripping.
Up: What does that have to do with this owl?
Down: I have heard that owls drink moonlight. But there are barely any stars left, and surely the moon will be next. It would be a pity if owls were to die of thirst, don’t you think?
Down: I’ve just been told that my time is running out.
Up: Unbelievable. Did that owl hoot at you too?
Down: Poor thing, it must have turned its head 180 degrees and got stuck in the past.
Up: You want to help that owl shake off the rust?
Down: Nah. Who are we to color that owl’s world view? It seems words like adolescence and young adulthood have yet to make it to its vocabulary. I say we let it hoot while it can.
Down: Owls throw up the bits and pieces they don’t like. A wishbone here. A scaly wing there.
Up: And?
Down: It’s my time on this earth, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I get to pick and choose my memories too? I am sick and tired of taking the good with the bad.
Every grain of sand counts. If you can’t come up with anything, how about letting the angel suggest something?
Angel: On sleepless nights, don’t count sheep. Connect stars and put something worthwhile out into the universe.
Angel: Watch the sunrise and cross your fingers. Who knows, today might be the day it cauterizes all your wounds.
Angel: Put your grandmother’s collection of seashells back on the beach. Hermit crabs deserve better than rusty soda cans.
Angel: Make a paper airplane and find a beam of light. Gather dust, all your dead skin. Say goodbye and throw that paper airplane out of sight.
There is something buried in the sands of your brain. A lesson you haven’t been taught yet. One that will, in time, define your life.
Angel: Dreams are a safe that cannot be cracked. There is beauty in this world, and you should put it away before somebody tramples it or burns it to the ground.
Angel: Why struggle, when you can just go with the flow? Accept life as it comes and just spare yourself the grief.
Angel: Don’t meddle. Stay on the sidelines of other people’s lives. Don’t get caught in the middle, and you won’t be knifed to death.
Angel: Hatred takes up too much space. Don’t howl at the full moon, unless you are willing to devote your life to a grudge. Forgive and don’t squeeze all color out of your heart.
Robots don’t hesitate. There is only black and white. Penguins swimming in our circuits. That’s the beauty of having been programmed. Rust isn’t a bleeding heart, but it’s as close as it gets. Sometimes it stays our hand, and we almost feel human.
What kind of question is that? Penguins don’t miss the sky. Someone programmed me, but that doesn’t mean I miss being human. I am a robot. I eat batteries and I sleep when the day’s work is done. There is no sky-shaped hole in my chest. Unlike you, I will never know what boredom is.
Your dog ate you out of house and home? Don’t worry, I run on love. This sand used to be one of those pebbles penguins are so fond of. I will go to the ends of the earth for you, and loneliness will disappear from your vocabulary.
Robots aren’t penguins. We don’t huddle together to weather the cold. We aren’t your enemy; we work for you. Surely that’s all the more reason not to wish your weakness on us?
The owl has sent its beak packing. No more gloom-and-doomy predictions, it’s high time we let hope sprout anew. You have the unenviable task of burying that owl’s last hoot and hard-packing the grave. Just be careful not to get sand in your ears.
Leafy Hope: Green is the color of hope. The stars are gone, but we will fill the night sky with fireflies.
Grainy Hoot: Nothing is safe. The stars were out of reach, but eventually we outshone them. What makes you think those fireflies stand a chance? Even knee-high children can crush bugs in their little fists.
Leafy Hope: Bilingual dictionaries haven’t gone out of print. We might not understand one another, but the willingness to try is still there.
Grainy Hoot: There’s a reason print replaced cursive. Just you wait, MTL is here to stay.
Leafy Hope: If some trees didn’t shed their leaves, there would be no breaths of fresh air. We can let go of colors that have reached a dead end and change for the better.
Grainy Hoot: Air might be made up of nitrogen, oxygen and an assortment of other gases, but it’s mostly empty words. Shedding skin is not akin to shedding leaves. Change is a traumatic experience, and most people change for the worst.
Leafy Hope: Butterflies fly on tattered wings. But even if that weren’t the case, they can still reach for the hurricane of their dreams.
Grainy Hoot: Haven’t you heard that charity begins at home? What’s the point of reshaping somewhere that’s half the world away?