ORIGIN: We were craving strawberries, and deer happened to hit the spot.
When I look at you, I don’t see a heart beating effortlessly. I see droplets of sweat. You remind me of a deer that is willing to break its back to reach for the stars and get its crown. Tell me, wholehearted strawberry, where have you put all your effort? The stars are already taken, so, what are you reaching for?
I don’t have a natural gift for learning. What I have is a curious heart that doesn’t shy away from sweating. There is barely any difference between sweat and tears. My heart knows that it will hurt. That it will take time and effort, and I won’t be able to go as far as either of us would have liked. The stars will never whisper their secrets in my ear. But I will hold dear all the crumbs I can get my hands on.
Half-hearted at best. That won’t be the definition of my life. I will do better from now on. I won’t spare any effort. The white spots on that deer’s skin will pale in comparison with mine. Goodbye old me. You won’t be remembered. I won’t rebuild myself around you. I will be a strawberry. The perfect backdrop for the stars. I will finally be what my efforts deserve, and you will be nowhere in sight. You will be gone from my heartbeat for good.
What is there left to say? Nothing in life is free. Dreaming used to be, but it wasn’t long before people polluted the night sky. Now the few stars that are left look like coins. Lackluster. After having passed from hand to hand too many times. I wouldn’t break my back for a dream. Would you, my deer?
There is something to be said about giving your all and making the best of what you have been given. Organs. Muscles. Ligaments. Bones. Running until your shoes are all worn-out. Feeling the wind on your face, threatening to crush you like a strawberry, but coming out the other side. Whole. Feeling more like yourself than you have ever felt before.
You are not a strawberry, my deer, but those birds aren’t finches either. Let’s just say that you are even. The scarecrow has a job to do. So, don’t sweat the small stuff and just let him get to it. Like attracts like, but once your ears are gone, those birds will have no reason to flock to you anymore.
Once upon a time there was a fawn that refused to grow up if it meant giving up its spots. So strong was his refusal, that this storyteller’s heart bled for him, covering everything in red. And now there is a strawberry where a deer’s face used to be. A strawberry that is still all ears. Listening. Always listening. To the stars he hopes will help him keep his adult life just as meaningful as his childhood.
Chaos makes me feel uncomfortable. Paralyzed. It’s not headlights, but it comes close. It’s like I have forgotten how to live my life. I need rules. 2+2=4. They don’t have to be quite that simple, they just have to make sense. I need harmony in my life. Otherwise I can’t breathe, and my heart forgets how to beat.
There’s a word, but it keeps slipping my mind. What do you call those rays of light that filter through the greenest leaves? Hope? Is that the word I am looking for? What I need running through my veins to feel alive and be thankful for every day.
I never liked being a child. The horizon called to me, but I wasn’t a bird, and I wasn’t allowed to answer that call. I had to wait. For a piece of paper and a date on a calendar. I took to the road before the ink dried. And even though I am not likely to ever leave my mark on the horizon, like it has left its mark on my heart, the road has yet to disappointed me. Which is more than I can say for my childhood.
Stars are twinkling dots in the night sky. I don’t see the appeal. I live for galaxies. That’s where I feel at home. In something that is greater than the sum of its parts. Brighter. A collaborative effort. That’s the world I want to live in. That’s the only world I am willing to bleed for.
A strawberry cut in half. The king is dead. Long live the king. Don’t worry, my deer, the crown is on your head, and there is still a world for you to inherit. It’s just that time takes its toll, and somewhere along the way most things take a turn for the worse.
Back in my deer’s day, you could only go as far as your feet would take you. The horizon was the end of your world. And if you managed to stow away on the sun and dip below the horizon, there would be a new world awaiting you. Not just a different landscape but a different mindset. That’s why sunsets and sunrises were such a beautiful thing. But horizons are a thing of the past. We have gotten rid of most of them. Nowadays you can find an exact replica of yourself almost everywhere. It’s a pity, but nothing seems to get lost in translation anymore.
In my deer’s day, words meant something. They were chosen carefully, they were written with devotion, by candlelight, at the cost of one’s sight. Words were not just a home, they were a house of worship, and they were built to last. Obviously, it was the wrong thing to do. The ABCs couldn’t be hoarded like treasure, they had to be taught. They had to be passed from hand to hand because everyone loves a warm, lived-in home. There is comfort in clutter, that’s why we don’t call misspelled words mistakes anymore. What they are is a proof of love.
Back in my deer’s day, caves were brimming with paintings. It was called art. It brought tears to most everyone’s eyes. Stars twinkled through those tears, and there was magic in the air. Now it is called vandalism. Because we don’t live in caves anymore. We have no use for starlight. And most everything is just an eyesore.
In my deer’s day, there was no such thing as a plastic knife. Strawberries grew under the sun, and they tasted like strawberries were always meant to taste. But I grew up chewing strawberry-flavored gum, and I guess I can’t complain. I enjoyed the noise those bubbles made when they burst in my face. What I have experienced can’t be called loss because it never felt like a knife in my heart.
My dearest strawberry, even a far-sighted owl can see that you aren’t long for this world. You are bleeding, and soon you will be white as a ghost. But first things first. You can’t take that crown to your grave. Forget all that you have read, there are no levels in Hell. It’s six feet under for everybody alike. But I will give you a chance to give your life for something or somebody else. What will your legacy be?
Quality over quantity. Art should never lose its personality.
A rocket to mars. Before there are no more untouched places left on this Earth.
Happiness come true. No longer something that can only be found in children’s books.
My child.