ORIGIN: Truth be told, we don’t remember where this one came from. Owls have long legs, and they would look nice in ballet shoes? Who knows, maybe barn owls reminded us of ballerina buns.
Bees can keep their honey. Sweet dreams are sticky, and I have no intention of wasting my one and only night sky. I will dance until my feet bleed. Red on the horizon. I will spread my wings and breathe life into each and every one of my dreams. Unlike the stars, I won’t be confined to just one hemisphere. Red is the key. The sun uses it to cross the horizon, and I am a bird of prey. I don’t sing mellifluous dreams. My claws have tasted blood, and I live to make my dreams a reality. Those honeybees can dance back to their hive in the moon, where nothing ever comes of moonlight. But I intend to follow the sun.
Some people run. Most birds fly. Wind on your face. Wind on our wings. Erasing reality, one particle of dust at a time. But dust always settles. Dreamlike colors don’t last. Fate isn’t written in the stars. Stardust settles, writing the same words over and over on our skin. As soon as you are done running. As soon as we touch down. Those particles of reality settle and shine, trying to burn themselves into our skin. There is no avoiding fate. Running doesn’t work and neither does flying. But I have read about a pair of red shoes. Redder than the reddest sunburn. And I am thinking of giving dancing a try.
Dawn breaks. No night lasts forever. Thank you very much for branding that reminder onto my name. Dreams don’t fade away. They break. There is no gentleness in that last touch. Eyelashes don’t flutter open. There are no butterflies to be caught and put away; warmth in your stomach to keep you company during the unforgiving day ahead. Your dream breaks into pieces, and it bleeds, pink and red, all over the horizon. There is no comfort in such a farewell. But you get used to it. I did. You just have to be grateful for small mercies. At least white dulls the pain.
There was a time when the Moon wasn’t an embodiment of loneliness. There were stars in her vicinity. Tiny grains of sand, that did the trick to keep that monster at bay. But then people came along, and all those tiny grains of hope and comfort were banished from the night sky. I am an owl. Darkness doesn’t bother me. I am a solitary creature by nature. It only takes one to dream, that’s why no monster will ever prey on me. But dreaming and living aren’t the same thing. The Moon may be a nocturnal animal too, but she was given light; someone wanted her to have a life. And that is something you share. Life is a dance. The Moon grew up surrounded by stars. It can’t be helped. She is still waiting for someone to lift her up. And maybe if the monster had kept its distance, this wouldn’t be a tragedy. Maybe anyone wouldn’t do.
An owl raised in a barn dreamed of joining the stars in their dance. But Fate is a strict choreographer that doesn’t allow any missteps. Life is meant to be followed, not led. That owl is now a tombstone in a ballerina’s bun. It reads, “Here lies a wasted chance.” The dance goes on. And on. And on. Stars circling overhead, waiting for you to fill that grave.
North. South. East. West. All the letters were well within my grasp. I could have been a compass with a clear, unwavering purpose in life. But the wind blew into my heart, with an armful of shiny gifts. I became a weather vane. And I try to tell myself that I am pursuing my dreams. All of them.
I could have had a chest brimming with beautiful memories. Both of us sharing the same dream, such a heartwarming friendship. But this jewelry box is full too, and it isn’t so bad.
Sharing the spotlight isn’t so bad. There is no such thing as the center of the universe. Stars are lonely creatures, and I prefer human warmth anyway.
I am fine. There is nothing wrong with falling in line. There will always be power in numbers, and being yourself only works when there are others just like you in your vicinity.
Stars are thumbtacks. I would say that they are an easy way to get rid of the competition, but that’s not what children like you are. The stars are meant to be looked at from afar, that’s the reason dreamers have such a low threshold of pain. Sweat. Blood. Dreamers like you give up at the first sign of real life. But I welcome each and every drop. I don’t dream of being a ballerina. Dancing is my lifelong ambition. It’s not the harmless twinkling of a faraway star. I bleed for it. Day and night. Just look at my bloodstained shoelaces on the horizon. That’s my effort, right there, for all to see. Where is yours?
I don’t need sunrises and sunsets to mark the passage of time. I don’t need the hands of a well-meaning clock. Even if the color red disappeared from the face of the earth, I would still know, in my very bones, that I am running out of time. That the time I have been given to make my dream a reality won’t even put a dent in the time the stars have been given to shine. Seconds. Days. Yellow and red. Those are the colors that live inside my bones. A red hand. A yellow sun. I am not strong enough to dance with that knowledge, but I can’t give my dream up. Every day I tie my shoelaces tight around my bones. And I dance. Trying not to break into tears.
No, I haven’t forgotten to tie those shoelaces. I grew up watching pinks, oranges and reds dancing on the horizon, that’s where I learned the importance of freedom. If I tied those colors down, it wouldn’t be long before they became just another blue sky. All charm lost. Just another everyday thing, aging me before my time. It’s better to have new colors to look forward to and let them dance to their hearts’ content. Blue is the oldest color there is, but hearts are meant to stay red. That’s why it’s so important to let things go, before the word old is applied to them too.
Naive. Is that the word you would use to describe me? Single-minded. That’s the word I would use. Sleeping wasn’t enough for me. I used to dance at all hours of the day, replacing reality with my dream. I don’t remember much about my childhood. It was gone in a blur of colors, but if I had to put a name to the impression it left, it would be happiness. I danced, with eyes only for that whirlwind of beautiful colors, and I didn’t realize that somewhere along the way my shoelaces had come undone. The wind took something from me, and I still haven’t managed to turn back time. There is a monster in my shoes. Covered in blood. Mishappen. Ugly. If I had known that was the price to pay for living a dream, I would never have danced. I would have lived aimlessly, like everybody else.