ORIGIN: It’s all there on the left eyebrow. Take under one’s wing is one of our favorite idioms. We were all set to draw an owl with owlets instead of feathers, but the tiger showed its face. We are weak. We went with the flow.
Some people are entranced by fire. I am riveted to the way water moves. To the way it conquers. I am not talking about watercolors. Reds that fade to pinks and then clear nothingness. I am talking about wet earth. Sunsets that pave the way for the darkest nights. I live for that smell. Petrichor. But I refuse to owe anything to a bunch of bacteria. Feathers fall to the ground like raindrops, and I won’t be persuaded otherwise. Owls give rise to those nights that hold all my dreams captive.
Isn’t it obvious? Owls are wise, and night comes after day. Black and white. These are the wisdom teeth that will replace my milk teeth. I am just waiting for them to erupt. I like that word. Volcanoes do that too. And then lava flows down, covering everything in tiger stripes. Wisdom shouldn’t belong to cowards, don’t you agree? Tigers and owls do their own thing. They don’t sacrifice everything just to conform. And I believe that wisdom should define me, not my capacity to survive in a group.
I never asked to be taken under your wing. Owl chicks may be covered in fluff, but they aren’t dandelion puff. You make me feel breakable. Indebted. Tiger cubs also learn everything from their mother, but nobody fears for them. Their stripes resemble cuts and scratches, but nobody thinks that they are at the mercy of branches and thorns. I am not a candle. I won’t go up in a puff of smoke. I am not a white dot at the mercy of city lights. You are the only one I am starting to hate.
I don’t remember Daybreak. I was too young, and my vocabulary wasn’t wide enough. I remember Nightfall, though. The end of my childhood. I couldn’t wait. The door was there. Ajar. A horizon waiting to be broadened. And that is what I did. I tied one end of a string around my loosest tooth and the other around the door knob. I slammed the door. Once. Twice. I lost count, but I gained strength. I remember blood. The taste of owls in my mouth. Rewriting my childish definitions and adding new words to my vocabulary. Useful words. That have helped me navigate the outside world.
Tiger stripes remind me of rainfall. I have no use for gentle raindrops. Meteorites are just pieces of rock. The magic is gone, there is nothing to wish upon. I am talking about fierce meteors. Rain that falls like stars, until the ocean is full. I used to wish upon the wake of boats. I wanted to be spirited away. But I have outgrown the childish urge to run far, far away. I don’t hide anymore. It might not be a wise course of action, but this is my home, and I have to fight for it.
Tonight, owls will rain from the sky. I don’t trust pearls of wisdom, I’m tired of them. It’s like reading a book. Something written in stone but open to interpretation. Books can’t defend themselves. They don’t answer questions, and I don’t like one-sided conversations. Some people read between the lines, but I am not that conceited. There is more to tigers than their stripes or the spaces between them. Nobody has all the answers. Not even the owls that will rain tonight. But I can’t wait to talk with them.
A little bit of wind never hurt anyone. Dandelion puff grants wishes and owlet fluff gives way to flight feathers. None of my wishes have come true, and I am not scarred for life. I am glad I crawled before I learned to run. Umbrellas are cheap, they can be easily replaced. I only attach sentimental value to my tiger stripes, and no wind will ever be able to blow those away.
I envy water its greediness. Droplets have a vision, they can’t help coalescing into an ocean. Owls are greedy too. They drink moonlight every night and never spill a drop. I hate being a tiger. I hate these stripes. They remind me of water stains on a window. The word I am looking for isn’t contentment. It’s not inaction either, because I have tried. But no matter what I do, I remain unchanged. I have screamed my throat raw, but I am not the wind. I can’t upturn myself as if I were an umbrella. And I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. To the point of wanting to stamp in puddles and gouge owl eyes out.
If you took tigers under your wing, what would you teach them?
That there is more to life than what lies beyond the horizon. There’s no need to give up everything you have ever known, in favor of a foreign land, just to try and find yourself.
That there is nothing written in invisible ink on the night. The stars aren’t lemon juice. They don’t hold the answers. And I would hate for my tigers to burn themselves out looking for something that isn’t out there.
That spoiled children should learn to fend for themselves, and nobody has a right to guilt my tigers into granting their wishes. Their stripes aren’t shooting stars. Tigers have their own fire, and it isn’t a songbird born to be caged. No tiger should ever have to live for somebody else.
That life is not all gloom and doom. Stars exist for a reason. But forced cheerfulness is just as bad. No one will brainwash my tigers into getting rid of their stripes. Not on my watch.
There’s a pair of tigers in the stomach of an owl. Acid-proof horizons and the orange of freeze-framed sunsets. Why? Because it doesn’t take much to become jaded when you are an owl with eyes too sharp for its own good. Midnight should be starry, not matt black. Hunger stems from the enthusiasm of childhood.
These tigers never show their teeth. Venus and Sirius can compete amongst themselves for all they care. These tigers will keep their stars to themselves and let the owl’s stomach growl on their behalf if they ever feel like interfering in other people’s affairs.
Owls don’t resort to gizzard stones. Why would they go to great lengths to grind the indigestible? Cats are fond of unraveling balls of yarn, and the tigers in this owl’s stomach are no different. Bones. Feathers. Teeth. Fur. Out they go. The way they came. Giftwrapped for somebody who cares about tomorrows and yesterdays.
Tigers aren’t house cats. They are above stealing other people’s tongues. Why bother with something that can only pale in comparison? Tigers use their own tongues to strip their prey of feathers and fur, until all that is left are bones white as starlight. But owls like their nights just the way they are. They can’t allow those tigers to unearth any more stars. That’s why they changed their diet and now only put away tigers.