ORIGINS: Look at the skulls in the original series and tell us that you don’t see the penguins.
By the way, the yo-yos came about because we couldn’t decide where to put the eyes.
I feel like a penguin that’s trying, and failing, to blend into a skull. Eye sockets and a nasal cavity. My soul. My home. That’s the darkness I am trying to retain. I wish everything else that I am, everything else that I have, would just melt away. That’s what white things like the snow are supposed to do, isn’t it? But I am loved. Do you see that kiss? Do you see that embrace? I am trapped. Every time I try to melt away, they are there, to scoop up my white, my faults, my ugliness, and build a snowman with them. They are there, to remind me that they love what I abhor. And I… My nose… My eyes… We can tell that our tears are welling up. That soon they will fall. And no one will bother to scoop them up. Because we are only taught to love other people’s faults.
I had a dream once. Two penguins built a snowman out of love. On a night when there wasn’t a single star in sight, those penguins built a beautiful heart. But children can’t be kept in the dark forever. They grow up. They wake up. And under the unforgiving light of the closest star, their hearts start to melt. Days go by. Cold days. Harsh days. Ugly days, when there isn’t a single dream in sight. Only the frozen world beneath their feet. And they blend in. They grow cold. They harden. Until they become one with that white skull, where we have stored our one true legacy. But I already knew that. I didn’t need a dream to tell me that beauty doesn’t last. It’s obvious that this disheartening ugliness is what will outlast all of us.
I heard somewhere that when people die, birds fly out of their mouths. You see, I have always been in love with the moon. She gives hope to penguins like me. Because her black and her white aren’t written in stone. Some people may say that she isn’t free. That she is trapped in a birdcage and made to sing the same song over and over again. But life is full of cages, and at least she gets to experience change. Different degrees of light and darkness, unlike penguins like me, who neither wax nor wane. Happiness and sadness are written in my skin. It’s fate. Telling me that this is the amount of happiness, the amount of sadness, I have been allotted. But I want more. I want less. I want to experience all the tide has to offer. So, the next time someone dies, I will be there, to borrow the wings of their bird and fly into a different cage.
The moon? No, I don’t envy her. Why would I? I am a penguin. I like the certainty I have been born with. I have white feathers. I have black feathers. I didn’t spend my childhood relying on dreams to keep my heart warm. I never expected life to be anything other than what it is. The moon can keep her tides. Others may find them inspiring, but I don’t. Others may admire the moon for having the strength to keep coming back from hopelessness, but I see no reason to give hope so much power over me. The power to kill me. The power to bring me back to life. No, thank you. I have seen enough meteor showers in my life. I have heard the sound those tears make when they crash against the ground. That sound taught me to embrace my feathers. It taught me to ward off hope, and I haven’t died yet. I am still myself. And that is how I know that I must be doing something right.
I have a penguin in my skull. It’s playing with my soul. Up and down, up and down, Up and down. What word would you use? The moon is black and white too, and she has tides that go back and forth. But that is not the word I am looking for. There is a line. It goes from the flippers of that penguin to my eyes. Does it look like a fishing line to you? Does it look like a lifeline? I don’t know. It feels like that penguin is looking for answers. But he must not like the ones he has found, because he keeps releasing them back into the world. Look! There goes the yo-yo again. Up and down, up and down, up and down. But I still have a smile on my face, so, everything’s alright.
I think that penguin must have mistaken me for the moon. But I am not, I cannot be the kindred spirit he is looking for. I am not black and white. I am white and red. There are bones, there is death inside me. And I guess that you could say that there is life too, blood and flesh that share the same color, but that color isn’t black. It isn’t the hopeful black of the night, where all dreams are created. The penguin expects me to look at the world through two different colors. He expects me to see hope and hopelessness walking side by side, covering the world with their footprints. But I am not that strong. I am not a tide. I have seen too many things I can’t come back from. My heart broke, my bones won. And now I can only see the world through the sockets of my white skull. Hopelessness around every corner. Pushing my weak soul, the tide I never could become, farther and farther into my skull.
I have heard those words before. That life is too short to take it seriously. But I am not looking for a pastime. My penguin might have done the math, but he is not the only one. I may not be covered in black and white feathers, but I, too, know that in this life the bad vastly outnumbers the good. That knowledge is carved on my bones. And I can’t use fun and games to wipe it off. Laughing makes me want to cry, and I can’t allow that hollow to become any larger than it already is. I need something meaningful in my life, to keep the tears at bay and put a smile back on my face.
Haven’t you heard? Life is full of ups and downs, but my penguin wouldn’t have it any other way. He is being coddled, and he is looking forward to the day he can finally take his own life into his hands. He can’t wait for the night to fall. He can’t wait to experience all the sadness this life has to offer. Because he knows that there is no other way to really appreciate the stars. And happiness doesn’t have to be everything. It just has to mean something.