ORIGINS: Schrödinger’s cat. But we are, and always will be, partial to birds. In the original character’s eyes, the bird was alive, wings spread wide, ready to take flight. But we turned them upside down, and the bird died, with those same wings spread stiff.
“Spread your wings,” they said. “Take flight,” they said. “Smile. Lift the corners of your mouth. Until that smile spreads all over your face. Until it hurts, and doors open for you.” That’s what they said. But birds flap their wings. Up-strokes and down-strokes. That’s what it takes. And I realized that my teeth aren’t white as day. They aren’t a row of hopeful tomorrows. My teeth are white as ghosts. And I don’t like what the sky has in store for me. I have a feeling that I will lose more than I will ever gain. And at the end of the day my wings won’t remember strokes of blue. Only dirt. And darkness on the other side of the door.
I am not naive. I know what will happen when I grow up. The colors of my bird will bleed into the ground. But that is not where I want to leave my mark. The sky is a blue, blank piece of paper. Do you know why? It’s because dreams fade away. Like clouds. Like the colors of the sun. Without putting a dent in that endless blue where birds fly and children like me dream. But my bird won’t give up. It will keep flying until the night I grow up. Because it knows that there will be no stars waiting for me. And I should at least get to remember that, once, I had something to look forward to.
Black cat. Black bird. Bad luck. I am my own worst enemy. But I can’t help where I feel at home. Blue skies scare me. Because I can see. All that emptiness. All that nothingness. At least the night, with its handful of stars, lets me dream. But I can’t hide in daylight. If someone deserves the name bird of prey it’s the color blue. Water in the mouth. Acid in the stomach. Flying makes me feel like it is only a matter of time before I disappear. And it scares me. Because my smile was the first thing life dissolved. Dreams disappear too. And one night soon I will run out of stars, out of replacements for the thing that keeps me pinned to my life.
Take flight. Like a good little bird. That’s what I am supposed to do. My wings are already spread, but I can’t bring myself to flap them. I don’t want to fly in circles over a dream that will only taste like carrion in my mouth if I bring it to life. I don’t want to fly back and forth. The horizon should be sharp enough to cut all ties. But I have seen homesickness creep into the bones of better birds than me, and I don’t see the point in flying if my future will just be a repeat of my past.
I made the wrong choice. I shouldn’t have died with my wings spread. Now the emptiness of the sky will follow me into death, and I can’t think of a worst ghost. I should have folded my wings and opened my mouth before my heart rotted away and it took my song to its grave. At least then I would have had a haunting melody to keep me company and light up the darkness behind my eyelids.
Did you know, little bird, that ghosts don’t change? Life is a song, but death puts an end to its plasticity. There are no more heartbeats. No more fingerprints. No more changes of air. When you become a ghost, your name is set in stone, and you can’t change your tune anymore. And you weren’t far off, little bird. You wanted to remain airborne, that is why you spread your wings with your dying breath. Don’t be sad. Don’t look so crestfallen, little ghost. Floating is not that bad.
I should have been a worm. But I grew into a bird, and I spent my days flying as far away from the ground as I could. Zest for life. Are those the words you would use? I flew even in my dreams. My wings spread beyond the horizon, tapping the sun’s energy. Reminding me to rise and get back to my zenith. That was my home. And I am scared. Because my heart has already started to rot. And I can’t help thinking that if I had been a worm, I would always have felt at home. At each and every point of my heart’s trajectory.
I want to be buried in the sky. Leave the ground for those who lived with both feet on it. I don’t want to dissolve into tears. If my bird has to dissolve into little worms, they should get to open holes in the night. Stars. My dreams should outlast me. But nothing spreads quicker than rot, and no heart is immune to life.
I am not one for clouds. Slow and passive aren’t words I would use to describe my imagination. Wild horses. That’s what I would like it to be. But I was born into a language that had already set the boundaries and drawn the lines. Describing my imagination as unbridled horses would be a lie. It would be akin to saying that birds are free. And I don’t like the aftertaste trying to lie to myself leaves in my mouth. Sometimes I wish I were a crafty fox, and I guess it’s starting to show. But lying to others is a useless skill for someone that would rather live with his head deep in the clouds.
If I were a magician, I would pull a rabbit out of my hat. Something white and fluffy. Better yet, I would pull a seal pup. The picture of innocence. That should do the trick, don’t you think? Nobody would ever envy a clumsy seal because innocence has never helped anybody to get ahead in life. But everybody wants wings. The easiest way out. And I just think that it would be nice to forget the color of blood. At least for a while.
I always wanted to be taken under somebody’s wing. But the people closest to me didn’t have time for a needy child such as myself. Raising me wasn’t their life work. I wasn’t a work of art. Something only they could bring to life. I was just flesh and bone. Something that could easily be mass-produced in a school. And their time was running out. Their muse was a tigress, and her fur only had so many blood-bathed horizons in it. They had to make the most of them. And I guess I should be grateful because they bought me a bird. A hat with wings. And that has to mean that at least my heart’s desire didn’t fall on deaf ears.
I hate Gravity. I wish I had never sworn fealty to her. I wish I could at least sleep in midair. Dirt is everywhere, and I can’t get it out of my dreams. If the sky doesn’t have a place for me in its heart, shouldn’t sleep have been my respite? My solace. Somewhere life couldn’t follow me. Why couldn’t Gravity at least throw me that bone? I am a good dog. I know that, when everything is said and done, my place is on the ground, not in the sky. But this much life is killing me, and I miss having something to look forward to, now that my dreams have turned to dust.
What do bedsheets have to do with ghosts? Sleep and Death may be brothers but telling them apart shouldn’t be all that difficult. If I wanted a disguise, I would fashion it after a dead bird. Because death is loss. And no loss is greater than the loss of flight. It’s final. There are no more half-smiles. No more new moons. Death and Sleep may share the same darkness behind your eyelids, but there is still a difference. You can’t use the word new to lie to yourself. Ghosts are supposed to be the embodiment of regret. But nothing breaks as easily as dreams, and I would rather not spend all my adult life as a ghost.
People have feet. Birds have wings. But Death is the end of the road, and ghosts have nowhere left to go. Have you ever wondered why ghosts have no feet? When I try to picture Life, I see a birdsong. Death is a wall. And ghosts have no say in anything. The echoes take them back. That’s what regrets are. But I am not worried. I like my regrets. They are familiar. They are comfortable. I can spend eternity reliving my mistakes because I already know them better than the palm of my hand, and I have never been one for imaginary friends. I don’t torment myself with what-ifs. And I am glad that Death isn’t a deer. Because what’s done is done, and I have no use for antlers. For a myriad of new forks in the road.
Nothing in my life has ever gone according to plan, and it might have colored my perception of ghosts. I wanted to be free. I wanted to have my wishes come true. Can you really blame me if my ghost looks more like a genie out of his bottle than a bedsheet? I never had a say in what I saw behind my eyelids. At least the darkness made sense. But I always wanted to paint my own dreams. Life can keep its colors. I don’t mind. I would rather not use brushstrokes, anyway. Dreams are meant to be sung. In the dark. Where you can pretend that they have come true. And that is what I will do. Until I lose my voice. Even if the price I have to pay is giving the stars to somebody else.
I read it in a book when my mind was still as plastic as a bird’s song. It should have worked, but something else had already left a mark in my heart. The protagonist tried to outfox Death, and I couldn’t bring myself to turn the page to find out whether he succeeded or not because I already knew that Death isn’t a fox. It’s not a game. Not even a hunt or a battle of wits. All Death does is collect the ghosts when the bodies rot away. She wasted away before my eyes. They tried to spare me. They kept most pages of the book from me. Until the outcome was decided, and it was my turn to make an appearance again. To say goodbye. And write The End in a piece of my heart. But the person I said goodbye to wasn’t the same person I used to know. I had missed too many pages. And if it had been up to me, I would have let Death take that last page too. Unread. Along with her ghost.
The bird gave up the ghost, and Death made a duster out of its feathers. Rejoice! Death hereby allows you to dust off one regret, before you end up buried alive.
They were right. I should have bought a pet and just given up on human interaction.
I should never have asked for the truth. His lies were pretty, and he was willing to lie to me. I should never have jeopardized my happiness.
Regrets? I don’t know what you are talking about. I made sure to choose my words carefully, and I got everything I ever wanted. There was no room for guilt in my vocabulary.
There’s no need. I already said that I was sorry, from the bottom of my heart, and that must have been good enough for the wind because it carried the guilt far, far away from me.