ORIGINS: Insects aren’t the only ones that go by the name silverfish. Apparently some moonfish like that name too. Their real name is MONODACTYLUS ARGENTEUS. In another language mono means monkey, and the only other dactylus we know have wings. That gave us winged monkeys and an offering of fish for the moon. And moonlit landscapes for the pterodactyls.
A long time ago moons used to grow on trees. They were the pterodactyls’ favorite treat. One day a pterodactyl ate a moon whole by mistake, core and all, and somehow a new moon started to grow inside its head. It never became more than a crescent moon, because there wasn’t enough space for more. But the other pterodactyls liked that look so much, that they set a trend. It wasn’t long before moons became something that only grew inside pterodactyl heads, leaving monkeys and fish no other choice but to join forces. The monkeys missed the delicious taste of those juicy moons. The fish missed those moons’ dream-like reflections on the surface of their lake. But by the time they retrieved them, and those pterodactyls became nothing more than bones, something had changed. It may have been the land, it may have been those moons. Poor fools. All that trouble, for something that would never grow again.
A pterodactyl scooped all the oceans of the world into its beak and flew to the moon. The pterodactyl promised that he would use that water to darken the night, until moonlight became the only light that could be seen. The Moon had never received such a wonderful gift before, and she wanted to return the gesture. The pterodactyl asked for two white crescent moons. And the Moon gladly gave them to him, because she never wore the same dress twice. The pterodactyl didn’t waste any time dressing one of his wings. But he kept the other crescent moon. He gave it to a monkey, one that needed a little bit of optimism in its life. You know, that thing that makes you see the glass almost full. Because the time had come to do something with all those fish bones. And the pterodactyl couldn’t be expected to come up with all the answers.
I already knew that both horses and dragons came with saddles. That there were no wild creatures left in the world, not even those that had been born in the pages of a book. But I believed that, at least, they retained some small part of their true selves. Now I know that pterodactyls still fly in the sky. But there are no saddles, there is something worse. The pointy hat of a gnome. To make sure that flying creatures aren’t associated with freedom ever again. Yet, that is not the reason I can’t contain my tears. I have seen monkeys riding on the back of those pterodactyls. Eating fish, as if nothing were amiss. As if they hadn’t lost anything of importance. That thing, that apparently only I cared about.
I am the king of this mountain, bring me fish! So said the pterodactyl to the leopard. And for some reason, the leopard complied. It was made of earth and rocks, the leopard had been part of that mountain, until the pterodactyl spoke. It had spent all its life trapped, unable to move. It made sense that it would jump at the chance to be free. But the pterodactyl never offered freedom, it had issued a command. And I will never understand why the leopard was so eager to jump. The pterodactyl got its fish, and once it was done, the pterodactyl threw the bones to the leopard. Some of them looked like crescent moons, and I finally understood the leopard’s choice. That sometimes having freedom of movement was enough. That power could be borrowed, and some were willing to pay the price.
The Moon wants fish, and who am I to disagree? Her wish is my command. Look at the shape of my wings. She gave them to me. And if she wants fish, I will deplete a river in her name. It doesn’t matter if those fish slap me across the face. I am willing to lose one of my eyes. Because images and dreams never made anyone free. But wings do. And I feel free every time I feel the wind under my moon-shaped wings.
I was a naive little monkey once. I wanted a dream. I begged the Night to give me one of her stars. But the Night told me that she didn’t do charity, that dreams deserved better than to be passed around, from one beggar’s hands to the next. The Night told me that she would only accept a trade, and I offered her the shiniest thing I had. A crescent moon. My toothy smile. And I got my dream. A piece of land. With trees as old as the stars. A connection. To the past. To all the dreams that land had already inspired. But I was a naive little monkey. Back then I thought I could fly. I thought I could be a night for my dream. That I could be the water, that kept those fish alive. But I was not. My fish couldn’t breathe, not inside me, and I watched them die. And when the Night tried to comfort me, when she told me that eventually all stars turn to dust, I couldn’t even fake a smile.
I heard somewhere that the moon was a fish. And there were two winged monkeys fighting over it. It’s mine. Not yours, never yours. The moon is mine! Mine! Mine! I heard somewhere that the stars are the holes the screams of those monkeys pierced in the night, and the sun is the other fish no one wants. Not even the flowers, that for some strange reason choose to drown every night. Under a sea that doesn’t know any other fish but them. But I can see that that is about to change. The monkeys don’t care about the moon anymore. It was just a matter of time, because that is what flying does. It lets something ugly grow. Until all those Mine! Mine! Mine! turn into I, I, I. The fish forgotten. Discarded. Into the water below. And those winged monkeys become the moon.
I have always thought of lullabies as fish, that swim in moonlight, leading me to my dreams. I have never put my dreams into words, if I want to eat something, that is what I have lullabies for. Words are a tool, a means to change the world. To turn a beautiful landscape into something useful, where there is no room for moonlight anymore. I might just be a naive little monkey, but I don’t want my dreams to change. Call me a bird, call me a coward, I don’t care. These wings are a tool, and nothing more. A means of escape. Because once I reach the moon, there will be no room for them there.