Al pobre el sol se le come.
Nobody cares about the helpless. Others are more likely to conspire to harm and ruin them. That’s the saying. And we chose it because we have a weak spot for the shelterless. And conspiracies too. If we are talking about something that protects from the sun, that can only be the night because shadows are nothing more than memories of the previous night. The only ones who can conspire gracefully during the night are the owls. And we already have everything we will need to write this little story.
The Owls gather every night to allot the shades that will shelter them and everybody else from the hungry sun. In low whispers, in a rustle of feathers, they allot all the shades for the next day. Speaking the names of their loved ones and those that matter to someone else.
Tonight, there has been a name no Owl has mentioned. Everybody knows what that means, but it won’t keep them up. The sun rises, and the Owls alight on their branches to sleep in the shade.
In a clearing in the forest there is a little girl. A fatherless, a motherless little girl that has people she calls friends but nobody to shelter her. And the sun shines on her. The sun warms her up. And for a moment there, she thinks that she matters to someone else. And the little girl bursts into tears, right before the sun devours her. Because it hurt. Knowing that the hungry sun was the only one willing to pretend to care, hurt too much. Beyond words. Like something that could only be put into tears.
Why haven’t they figured it out yet? It’s not all that hard. It only took us one night, and we haven’t lost an owl to the sun since. They could just draw lots. Love isn’t a requirement. All that is needed is the willingness to have a name other than their own in their heart. But they keep saying that the heart wants what it wants. The sun is getting fatter by the day. And I just want to sleep my days away. I just want to be as far away from them as the darkness of sleep can take me.
Are you really telling me that you don’t like our rules? Would you rather have been a selfish, self-centered creature whose heart only repeated its own name? We are giving you a chance to at least pretend that you don’t always put yourself first. But if you don’t like our definition of love, you know where the sun is, don’t you?
Poor thing. You have made it this far and none of your loved ones have bothered to explain the rules properly to you? The sun is bad. It has countless sharp teeth, and it is hungry all the time. Shades are good. They shelter you and keep sunlight at bay. But everything comes with a price. Owls like us, we are neutral. All we do is read the names that are written in hearts like yours. We can tell whether you are loved or not, but we can’t tell you how much you owe or what those hearts expect in return. You will have to find that answer somewhere else.
Don’t be like that. You have read her heart too. This child is loved. I know that dawn has almost broken, and she could have found that crumb of love a little bit sooner, but she managed to write this child’s name. She didn’t leave a single letter out. And the rules are clear. That’s enough to buy a shade for today.
What was it you said? That love is unconditional? Maybe you should tell that to the Owls because I think that they must have been asleep during that all-important lesson. If they knew that love is supposed to be unconditional, they would know that it should apply to everyone alike, and no name would be left unsaid at night. But love isn’t what binds people together, is it? It’s fear of the sun. It’s desperation or plain necessity. I need someone, anyone, to say my name. I know what unconditional means, and I am not picky. I want something in exchange, and I don’t care on whose heart my name is written as long as it gets spoken aloud. But, apparently, I am the exception, not the rule.
Why would I complain about the way things are? The Owls are doing a wonderful job. Every day I wake up to a shade that has my name written on it. There isn’t a day when I am not sheltered from the sun. And all I have to do is keep being my lovely self. Would you really complain if you were in my shoes?
I don’t like the definition of love, it makes me feel small. Insignificant. But it was the first lesson I learned, and even after all these years no other scar has crept closer to my heart. If I were alone, I would get eaten. I have seen it happen before. The sun doesn’t show mercy, it doesn’t even hesitate. And I would like to say that I did, but it wouldn’t be true. I am a fortunate coward that hides in the shade, like everyone else. Someone else’s love shelters me from the sun. And it isn’t so bad. It doesn’t hurt too much. I just have to keep reminding myself that everybody else is just as small as I am. That everyone’s life is in someone else’s hands.
At least sunlight is quick. It only takes one day. Of being shelterless. Of being shunned by the heart that used to put your name before everyone else’s. One night. Just one. Of the Owls leaving your name out. And you are gone. No more pretending. No more doing the math behind fake smiles, trying to be more lovable than those that have set their sights on the same heart as you. Sometimes I wonder if there will be anything left of me to feed to the sun.
This will teach me not to pin all my hopes on just one person. The Night has it right. It’s better to spread the stars. Someone, somewhere, was bound to be lonely enough to build one of my crumbs up. I could have had more than enough moons to last a lifetime. But I didn’t want to disrespect my love. I didn’t want to diminish its meaning. And I should have known that idealism isn’t the way to go. Not in this world ruled by owls, where there are no second chances.
Nightmares? I haven’t had one of those in ages. I never go to sleep until I have heard the Owls say my name. It works better than a charm. Better than a lullaby or a goodnight kiss. You just have to make sure to live your life one day at a time.
Did you know that every shade comes from the Owls? That’s why being loved feels like being under a wing. Protected. Safe. Freedom is just a made-up word anyway. The blue sky belongs to the sun, and wingless creatures like us were never meant to fly.
Last night the Owls didn’t read my name in anyone’s heart, and the sun is almost down to the last bite of me. Do you know what it will see? That I still love them. That I will miss them. And I just wish my last thoughts could have been about me. That my heart could have told me that there was still a drop of love for me in this world, even if the Owls would never take it into account.