ORIGINS: The prop of the second character in the original series was a star-nosed mole. Its nose reminded us of a bat, it looked just like a crown, and we wondered which animals would deserve a little bit of starlight in their lives.
Moles aren’t the only creatures with stars on the tip of their nose. I am a hare, and the bat that knows me better than anyone else says that I have one too. He drinks my blood every night. He doesn’t know what my dreams look like, but he knows what my blood tastes like. My promise. My limitations. The bat says that fate is written in the stars and I should be thankful for that. Because it could have been written in the leaves. All it could have taken was a little bit of water. But my star demands blood. And I can sleep soundly at night, knowing that my star is safe, because I won’t feed on it.
Some people are lucky, they have things that fit them like a glove. Some bats have leaves and some moles have stars, but I am a deer, and I know that my antlers will eventually tear apart any comfort I try to find in this life. If I were a bird, my blood would sing brighter than the stars. But I am a deer, and I have seen it happen before. The stars on my back will disappear as I grow older, and I will stop feeling alive long before my bones form a constellation on the forest floor. Fate can’t be changed. But sometimes I wish I could sing. I wish bats would take pity on my blood and came to drink my stars. While they were still bright. While they still fit me, and I knew nothing but warmth.
I won’t lie, I used to envy moles their stars. Maybe things would have been different if I had been one of those bats that are born with a leaf on the tip of their nose. If I knew what hope smelled like. But the only color I knew back then was red. The red of blood. The one that tastes like copper, long before it dries, letting me know that everything I love and everything I am passionate about will only end in disappointment. It hurt. Like fangs piercing my flesh. Inching closer to my soul every night. It hurt. And all I wanted was something bright. To wish the hurt away. To push those fangs far, far away from me. I would have settled for a little bit of white. To take the sting out of the color red. I could have lived with a gentler pink. But the colors never mixed. The star I stole only taught me that wishes don’t come true, and disappointment is all there is to life.
Once, when I was a little mouse, I wished upon the star on the nose of a mole. I wanted to fly, but not during the day, when I knew most birds flew. I wanted to touch the stars. I wanted to feel alive. Surrounded by deadly, silent black, I wanted to touch the most vivid colors. I wanted to breathe them in. Blues and greens. Purples and pinks. I wanted a lungful of the hottest red, to burn this horrible grey inside out, until nothing remained of it. But my wish didn’t come true. I didn’t magically turn into a bat. And I guess that I should be grateful for small mercies, because red isn’t only the color of love. I could have grown to hate myself, but I don’t feel anything when I look at this grey, it doesn’t even inspire me to wish upon the stars anymore. And I don’t know why I was so scared of growing up. Not when everything could have been so much worse than mere apathy.
It doesn’t matter how fast you are. I should know, I am a hare and I can’t outrun the stars. I was told that fate was written in the stars, and I did my best to erase them. It would have been easier if fate had been written in the grass. I could have grazed that, until I had a blank piece of paper waiting for my words. But life doesn’t wait for anyone. Galaxies. Stars. Planets. Moons. Everything moves. Even grass. Even if it is just from left to right, to someone else’s tune. And it doesn’t matter if you raze it to the ground. It finds a way to grow back. And so too does what is written in the stars. Blank pieces of paper don’t exist, and never will.
What do you want me to say? If I knew a way to bring back the stars, I would already have brought them back to the fold, closed the gate and thrown away the key. But all I seem able to do these days is cry, and those tears only wash the stars farther and farther away from me, without leaving any crumbs behind. I never thought that I would become a fish one day. One of those homesick fish that swim upstream, to die, back home, in the place of their dearest memories. But that is what I will soon become. I have already cried a river. And soon my antlers will grow. Retracing every step, every tear that failed to call my stars back. I will be trapped. Reliving my memories until the day my antlers are done growing and I finally die.
Do you like the taste of blood? Being a bat I can’t complain, but I myself prefer the taste of the stars. Life is a necessary evil, but dreams are what I really thirst for. All that wonder and enthusiasm, the countless words sparkling in the eyes of a child that is still willing to engage the world in conversation. Before the fight for survival starts and blood becomes the only color in his mouth, in his ears, drowning out every other word. I prefer dreams, because I can’t do anything about the aftertaste this life leaves in my mouth, and I would hate to lose my smiles to it. But I know that not everyone is a bat like me. That having a dream, with the aftertaste of blood still in their mouth, would only make some people cry.
I have no use for the stars. The sooner we make them disappear, the sooner we are done burying them under smoke and neon lights, the better. No. You are wrong. I may be a little mouse, but I am not afraid. I just don’t see the point of pursuing a dream or wishing for things that won’t come true. The stars are out of reach. They always will be. And you can’t tell me otherwise. I may be a child, but I know that the stars aren’t just crumbs on the night. That they are hundreds of times larger than I am, and they will never fit in my hand. And even if that weren’t true, even if by some miracle you found a star that was smaller than a mouse, it would burn your hands, before you could ever put it in mine.
I can’t see. It’s too dark. Are you my guide star? Is this your heart? May I put my ear to your chest? I promise to keep my hands to myself. I just need to hear a beat or two. I just need a little bit of reassurance. I won’t rip your heart out of your chest. I can promise you that. Your blood is yours, and so too is your warmth. I won’t steal anything from you. All I need is a word or two. Before I burrow any deeper. I need to know that I am doing the right thing. I don’t want to get lost. I need to know that someone else has already traveled this path. That I won’t be alone. Please, if it isn’t too much to ask, won’t you be my guide?
There you are, my dearest sky. I can smell every one of your stars. Do you know why I love you the most, even though you are the color of autumn and don’t let me forget that everything rots? It’s because you have never lied to me. You have never hidden your stars behind the color blue. You have never acted as if I were a child and you were afraid of stunting my growth. You were never afraid of letting me know that the truth hurts. That hearts don’t beat, night after night, without leaving a few bruises behind. If you had lied to me, nothing I found in the ground would ever live up to the blue of the sky. And I want to thank you, because if it weren’t for you, I would never have found anything beautiful in this world.
When I heard that we were made of stardust, I almost burst into tears. Strange, isn’t it? You would have thought that I would have been delighted. Because stars are fire, and ashes and dust can’t be that different, right? But I always knew that phoenixes weren’t real, and even if we could have risen like them, every particle of my being told me that it wouldn’t have been to be brighter than the stars we had started as. Even after all this time my eyes are still wet. And I need you to tell me something that can help me forget the stars and reclaim the fire that used to keep my heart warm. You are a bat, aren’t you? No one knows blood better than you. And I need you to tell me that love is enough. That I live underground, in the dark, surrounded on all sides by the color of dried blood. You are a bat, and I need you to tell me that I don’t have to be better than the stars, that I don’t even have to be good. That everything will be all right, that there will be nothing to forgive, as long as I love myself.
Where are the stars? I can’t smell them anymore. Did you gnaw all of them? Couldn’t you at least have left a few crumbs for me? Please, tell me that you aren’t so heartless. You had to have known that I was trying to find my way back to the light. That I was doing my best to believe in goodness, because I could already feel the walls of my tunnel closing in, and it wouldn’t be long before the darkness swallowed me whole and I too became part of the ugliness of this world. You had to have known that! And even if you were scared, even if becoming part of the ugliness seemed like the best way to put an end to your nightmares, the stars were not yours. They were mine too! And I shouldn’t have to live with the choice you have made.
Do you know what all four of us agree on? That, no matter how you look at it, there isn’t even the slightest bit of resemblance between the nose of a mole and a star. If that nose resembles anything, it is a pair of greedy hands. Like recognizes like, after all. Unlike us bats, blood may not be what moles are after, but we know that their greed equals our thirst, and nothing you say will change our mind.
Ups. We are sorry to have misplaced you. Thankfully, it’s a wrong we can easily right.
I have a headache. A starburst. Why won’t that mole go back the way it came? There’s blood on its claws. If I close my eyes and tilt my head to the sun, that’s the color that stabs my eyes. Regrets. Unfulfilled dreams. All I want is to crawl on my hands and knees. I crave the darkness of outer space, where all ripples come to a dead end. But that mole’s tunnel leads to the center of my mind, and I have an uncontrollable urge to scream.
Every time that mole bursts forth, I lose bits and pieces of myself. I am a child, I can’t help missing them terribly. Something dies inside me, I can smell it putrefying. It fills the hole, but I don’t like who I become. Something tells me that I am a starburst away from adulthood. There’s no going back and I am afraid to face the mirror because I know I won’t be getting off lightly. What I wouldn’t give for just 7 years of bad luck.
Do you like my crown? It’s a star-nosed mole. None of my wishes have come true, but at least they haven’t gone unheard. That mole and I live hand in hand. Its dirt. My blood. Our warmth. I tried my best, and I won’t be ripping my heart out of my chest. Comfort will ripple through my worn-out fingers, all the way to my heart. I will scoop all our tears in my smile. That heartbreak may have my name written all over it, but I will keep it at bay. Just you wait.
No, thank you. I know life has reduced me to skin and bones, but I never asked you to gouge out my eyes, Mister Mole. Hope stayed in the box. That’s what my bones are made of. Disappointment may have gotten into every pore of my skin, but I am not ready to give up. Something, somewhere, is bound to live up to my dreams.