ORIGINS: Look at the eyes of the seventh character in the original series. A row of pigs (times two). That’s what we saw. And even though all of them were white, some had longer snouts, and we were in low spirits. One pig stood out, and our minds’ eyes colored it pink, darkening the others.
Detached. That is how I feel. I should be a wild boar, blessed with the ability to blend into my surroundings. I should feel like part of this planet. I should have the right colors to be welcomed into its embrace. But I was cursed. Someone made me a pink pig, and I stand out everywhere. I don’t feel at home. I can’t breathe. And even those that live with the same curse don’t commiserate with me. The highest mountains are white. They try to blend into the clouds, without sparing a thought for a pink pig like me.
When I was young, someone used to lull me to sleep. Never once did she try to foist me on the waves. All I remember is her heartbeat, and the warmth of the arms cradling me. She was my whole world. Everything that was right. I thought that I would be a wild boar when I grew up. That I would blend into who she had been for me, effortlessly, and I would be the world for someone I loved with all my heart. But it didn’t come naturally to me. I grew into a pink pig. I didn’t have the right colors to love how I wanted to love. And even after covering myself from head to toe with mud, my heart didn’t beat loud enough. Never like I remembered. And it wasn’t long before I grew cold. Colder than I had ever felt.
It’s not your fault. You meant well. You couldn’t have known that I would take your words to heart. Unconditional love sounded like music to your ears. Like the best gift you could ever give me. I was your little pig, and you only wanted me to wallow in blue skies. You couldn’t have known that my heart longed for the woods. For light filtering through the leaves. One beam. I needed to know where I ended and others began. Two beams. Three beams. I needed to know that I was irreplaceable. Four. And five. But blue skies are overflowing with sunlight, and it feels like you will never truly grow fond of me. Not for who I really am.
Who in their right mind would want to be a wild boar in this day and age? Roots are ugly, gnarled things. Who would feel attached to something so old, when the world is full of colors waiting to be brought out? Not me, that’s for sure. I don’t miss the stars. The night sky was made for firework displays. And pigs were always meant to be pink.