ORIGINS: The eye of the ninth character in the original series reminded us of a bird carrying a heavy rock on its back. And one of us has never been any good at telling greek myths apart. Why can’t the one that had to roll a boulder uphill every day and the one that had his liver eaten by an eagle every day be the same person? We will just pretend that they are.
Does that look like a boulder to you? I am sorry to disappoint, but that is the sky. It’s my punishment, you see? Because regardless of what I used to think, I am not a bird. I have been given a life to live, and I am not supposed to waste it flying after my dreams. The real bird has told me more than once that it is for my own good. That most dreams don’t come true, and disappointment spreads farther than the wings of any bird. That those worms spread from organ to organ, faster than they would spread from one apple to the next, and life is too long to start rotting so soon. And as you can see I am disappointed, because, like any other child, I too would have liked to keep dreaming. But the real bird has already told me more than enough times that it is for my own good, and I believe him. Because I know that birds eat worms, and if it only had its own interests at heart, the real bird would let me fly after my dreams.
Have you ever heard that myth of the boulder and the hill? I only remember that it was a punishment. And that is just what Hope feels like to me. It’s like rolling a heavy boulder uphill. You give your all, until there is no breath left in your lungs. Then you fail, and Hope is that cruel, heartless voice inside your head. The one you can’t ignore. The one that tells you to try again, and again, and again, even after more than a thousand sunsets of the same outcome. And I just wish that she would get lost. That she would fly far away, like a good little bird, somewhere without snow. Without a reason to return. Or, at the very least, I wish that she would accept that some things are written in stone. But apparently my entrails are made of blank pieces of paper. And that stubborn bird thinks that if only she keeps writing, one day, one of her happy endings is bound to come true.
I had someone like that once. Someone willing to shoulder the sky for me, so that I had somewhere to fly and I could follow my dreams. Even though he was a bird, and I know now that he must have wanted to fly too, he stayed on the ground. For me. And I never heard anything other than songs come out of his mouth. He encouraged each and every one of my dreams. And I just hope that when the time comes, to break all my pencils and shoulder the sky for someone I love, I will be as good a father to my little bird as my father is to me. One that knows to keep all the ugliness and the resentment to himself.
Do you know why the sky is such a heavy burden to shoulder? It’s because it is full of dreams. Not the ones that are still warm and shiny, without a single dent in them. Not those dreams that still haven’t disappointed anyone and are still being used to keep hearts warm and light the way. No. Only broken dreams wind up in the sky. Because they hurt too much, and hearts just want them out of their sight. Mine wasn’t any different. I threw my broken dream as far as I could. Without sparing a thought for the unfortunate birds that would feel compelled to try to comfort me, only to fail miserably. I know. Because I tried. I tried to comfort my heart. And my lungs. And my liver. But nothing I said could be heard over the disappointment singing in my veins. Singing, because that is what birds do when they aren’t flying. When they are on the ground. And the song just kept throwing dirt. Until all my organs were buried deep.