ORIGIN: It’s cold outside and the Brush agrees with us, a blanket and a hot water bottle pale in comparison to a circle of penguins.
What can we say, recycling is important and we were the type of child that draws outside the lines. We are sure the Brush doesn’t mind.
Penguins huddle together to stay warm. When I heard that they take turns staying in the middle, I thought I had finally found the definition of hope. But then I remembered that we don’t live in a black and white world. The earth’s rotation isn’t perfect and those are the colors we take after. We can’t help looking out for number one. Even the definition of loyalty broke my heart.
The person who raised me believed in loyalty. Do you know where penguins keep their eggs? I got my first bit of warmth at that person’s feet. There’s no loyalty without sacrifice, but that word didn’t spread throughout my heart, shaping me into who I would become one sunny day. Eggs break and shells are left behind. That’s life. Some birds don’t fly, but hot air always goes up. I was raised to be happy and now my heart is too light. It isn’t suited to loyalty at all.
I got my first frostbite the day I realized that nobody does things out of the goodness of their heart. The penguins in the middle of the huddle only let others have their seat to avoid overheating. I was taught to forgive, but there was no attempt to disguise it as a virtue. I was told not to hate because its first victim would be my own heart, and I am still waiting for that tooth-marked darkness to thaw.
I have tasted sunlight. Homemade food in my stomach. Now it’s time to set foot on the outside world and expand my circle. My heart is packed with hope. Surely that collective body heat won’t let me down. I know that ice burns, but that can’t be the nature of the beast. I have read the definition of humane, and dictionaries don’t lie, do they?
I want to believe that everything started with the best of intentions. It’s just that we have come too far down the line. Wolves have turned into dogs and fire is in the palm of our hand. But there’s still hope. The harshest cold lasts six months, tops. Penguins go their own way come summertime, and I was raised to be independent anyway. Maybe it’s just time to start anew.
Fanning the flames taught me that blue is hotter than red. My lips. My heart. I am the result of two people that had already grown cold and couldn’t bring themselves to admit it. I was their last hope, and nothing I did was right. I’ve always wondered what blue has to do with sadness. I spent my childhood crying my eyes red. Doesn’t that color make more sense?
I don’t like ghosts. They shouldn’t have a say in my life. My mother’s mother wove this scarf, but she died long before I was born. She was her family, not mine. I don’t know what her voice sounded like, why should my heart beat to the rhythm of some stranger’s words? I hate these cold handprints around my throat. I don’t understand why my mother insists on calling them love.
There are words I don’t use. Let’s just say that not much is left of my original source of heat. I will always be grateful that some of that love lasted until death. Violence also comes in the color red, that’s why I prefer neglect. Blue, blue indifference. But now I have a choice to make. Do I eat popsicles until my heart is numb with cold? Or do I bet on red one last time?
My childhood was all dogs and penguins. Do you get the picture? I was trapped, with no way out. Those who should have loved me weren’t there for me, they just got me a pack of dogs for companionship. You still don’t know what penguins are? Books. Black words on white paper that’s cold to the touch. Someone else’s adventure. Someone else’s thoughts, driving home the fact that no one cared about my own.
When I was young, I never spread my arms and pretended to fly. I grew up surrounded by penguins, but I would never lay the blame at their feet. Contrary to popular belief, dreaming doesn’t come naturally to every child. Envy, on the other hand, does. My bedroom floor was littered with broken wishbones. Come to think of it, they never told me to pick up after myself. They just gave me a dog as a consolation prize, and maybe I should blame them for that.
I know puppies sleep in a pile, but that was never my childhood. I remember skies the color of penguins that have bled into one another. Cold rain. Getting soaking wet and watching my energy go down the gutter like a paper boat. That’s what I got for trying to share my hopes and dreams with somebody else. But all’s well that ends well. I grew up and now I take my pages from the sun. I’m all teeth and have no qualms about protecting what’s mine.
I have heard that some children dream in color, but my nightmares only come in black and white. I’m lost in a circular maze. I hear dogs barking in its heart, urging me not to come any closer, but I’m afraid of the cold. I’m a middle child, but those dogs don’t know what that means. I fell through the cracks before I had a chance to carve my name in anybody’s heart. Nobody expects anything from me. Nobody has ever smothered me with love. Those dogs never stop barking, while I slowly freeze to death.
If there was only one lightbulb in all the house, I certainly wouldn’t want it in my room. I miss the childish monsters under my bed, I wish I had never driven them out. All teeth and bright eyes. That’s how I used to smile. Way back when I still believed in penguins and dogs. But now I know that there is no such thing as good and evil, and friend was never the right word to describe something on a leash.
Vacant look? I don’t know what you are talking about. Where would I even go? I am not a penguin, I am not built for life at the ends of the world. And, anyway, haven’t you seen the flags? There’s no peace left anywhere under the sun. I am a good boy. Do you want to see a trick? Feed me and I will show you companionship.
I’m not interested in a dog sled ride, what I want is a penguin to carry me on its back. No, not piggyback. I’ve had enough of those, thank you very much. Pigs are pink and those are the lies that hurt the most. Dreamers have no place in the real world. I know the damage is done, but please, just let me cling to a shred of hope. I’ve heard that some wrongs can be righted. Who knows, maybe if I rest my head on a black and white pillow, with my eyes wide open, I will finally see the world for what it is and I will stand a chance.
I would recognize the handiwork of those hunting dogs anywhere. Their toothmarks. My commands. The bloody feathers at my feet. There was a time when I thought penguins were the answer to my parent’s prayers. I was a child that used to dream faraway dreams, I had never taken a close look at what was right in front of me. I thought that penguins had no feathers and that would be enough to lessen any guilt. But by the time those dogs proved me wrong, it didn’t matter anymore. I had already outgrown all the voices others tried to root in my heart.
Girl: Do you agree with my mother?
Her dog: …
Girl: That’s right, you don’t. You love me best.
Her dog: …
Girl: She might have put somebody else first, but that’s not the definition of adulthood. It’s not even the definition of motherhood nowadays.
Her dog: …
Girl: I like this warm place. Being the center of somebody’s world. You like it too, don’t you?
Her dog: …
Girl: Don’t be silly. There’s no shame in admitting it. Dogs like you will get to enjoy this warmth long after children like me become extinct.
Girl: Why the droopy ears? Those penguins aren’t the past, they are a promise of warmth. Of nights and days yet to come.
Her dogs: …
Girl: Robots are cold to the touch. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise, you are the future, my friends. Everybody will make room for you in their hearts, even if it means evicting their own flesh and blood.
Her dogs: …
Wolfish dog: How does it feel to be spoiled rotten?
Droopy-eared dog: I have no complaints.
Wolfish dog: I don’t believe you. Just look at your ears. You must be drowning in a river of tears.
Droopy-eared dog: Shows what you know. Any penguin worth its salt will tell you that ice amplifies sound and snow mutes it. Your pointy ears look sharper than a snowflake and I’ve heard what survival does to a heart. Your cold screams won’t let my warm breath past your ears, so I won’t even try.
Pointing dog: The exit is that way. Quick, follow me.
Rest of the pack: No, thank you.
Pointing dog: I can’t believe you.
Children: We can. Hardly any birds stay to welcome the cold, but there’s no outrunning the big, bad world. Penguins huddle for warmth and they make it work. There’s nothing wrong with following a tried-and-true method.
Pointing dog: But you aren’t penguins. You are selfish little children. I might be a dog with red-green color blindness, but even I know what rotten apples lead to.
