Everything starts with a corpse (屍尸), a body that has been abandoned by its soul. In the first half of that word, we find a deer (鹿), and what’s left is a pair of wings (羽根). They could have belonged to a bird or an insect, but we will go with a bird because we want to include the roots of those wings. The only thing that has a hold over that bird.
In the forest there are three corpses. Two of them are on the floor. The child found his sister’s corpse already there. He didn’t witness his sister’s last breath, he doesn’t know where her soul went. But he saw that bird fall dead by his sister’s corpse. That’s what rooted his feet to the spot. The child knows that, unlike people, birds have tangible, visible souls. And the least he can do is witness the flight of the soul that’s closest to his sister.
The dead bird’s wings twitch as though it were about to take to the sky. But the child has been abandoned before, he knows how it works. Love doesn’t linger. It’s a surgical procedure. Nothing gets left behind. Those wings uproot themselves, tie a beautiful knot, and fly without looking back.
His duty done, the child walks deeper into the forest, ready to say goodbye and move on with his life, but he comes upon a deer that has lost its antlers. And the child wonders whether that deer is a corpse. Whether those antlers were its soul. Because there are supposed to be three corpses in this forest, and the third one has to be that deer.
The thought didn’t cross my mind, it set up camp. Deer shed their antlers every year. My soul will come back, but I don’t find that the slightest bit reassuring. My soul shouldn’t leave me in the first place. Why couldn’t I have been given wings? Birds shed their feathers, but their wings stay put. Birds have a soul year-round. At this rate, my deathdays will far outnumber my birthdays, and I am not looking forward to blowing out those candles.
I abhor loyalty. Just the thought of it sends shivers down my spine. The day Death finally opens the Birdcage, I would hate my soul to stay. All cooped up. Singing with stunted wings. Just the thought of it makes my spine want to curl up and give up. Birds might be born with wings, but deer aren’t born with antlers. Loyalty shouldn’t befall us. It should be till Death do us part. But antlers have a taste for blood, and something tells me that they will stay attached to my skull. Till settled is the score.
You should grow a heart. My bubble wasn’t yours to burst. I am a late bloomer, but this forest never held it against me. Every winter, my antlers mirror the branches of these trees. If they didn’t shed their leaves in autumn, and I didn’t hold on to my antlers till early winter, we would be nothing more than two ships passing in the night. My corpse was supposed to become part of this forest. My last pair of antlers was supposed to grow into a tree. I didn’t need to know that it’s dust to dust. You should have kept the stages of decomposition to yourself.
If deer grew wings? I wouldn’t think twice. I have always wanted to leave my mark on the sky. Stars are easily outshined, and trees are easily killed. I want to scrape the blue off the sky and derail the sun before someone wolfs it down.
I say good riddance. Soul is just another word for conscience, is it not? I am not in the habit of listening to that deluded little voice, so I won’t be missing it anytime soon. I intend to live a long and comfortable life, and blood on my talons is just that. Blood. A way up. So you see, wings are not the be-all and end-all of life.
Birds aren’t sentimental, they don’t hold on to worn-out feathers. They live to fly, to answer the call of the sky. That’s why they molt without shedding a tear. But you don’t have wings. You have eyes, that’s where your soul lives, isn’t it? If my wings took after bones like yours, I would cry a river. What you see stays with you. It wears out your soul. You can’t forget, you take everything to your grave. You don’t have a sky calling you home, but don’t despair. You do have my deepest condolences.
I am a bird; I was born to fly. That should tell you everything you need to know. But just in case you need me to spell it out, I am not strong. My feathers begin to grow back at the first goose bump, and I never fail to retain my talons. If you couldn’t tell, I have the utmost respect for deer. They shed their antlers in autumn and don’t begin to grow them back until spring. Birds like me flee winter, but deer face it unarmed. They don’t avert their gaze from their cold breath. But I will always fear for my soul. I don’t trust it to come back, that’s the root of my weakness.
Don’t be like that. Can’t I just uproot my heart? Love and hate make for a more entertaining read, wouldn’t you say? It’s all yours, just let me keep my boring old wings. There’s nothing written on them, the sky is nothing if not indifferent. Just throw me that bone. Don’t bar me from the sky. Leave the door ajar. I promise to only fly tree-high. Others won’t look like insignificant ants. When I hand over my heart, it will be bursting at the seams. Please. Pretty please.
This tree wasn’t struck by lightning. These butterflies have gone on strike. That’s your cue to rejoice. No soul will be led out of this forest in the foreseeable future. Don’t waste your time playing hide-and-seek. Roam free. Haunt to your late heart’s content. I know that your last breath went unheard. This is your one and only chance to twist the knife in the wound. Write all over these trees. Let the whole world inhale your grievances. Do your part in helping that collective wound fester.
Stars might decide your fate, but these butterflies aren’t at Death’s beck and call anymore. From this day forth, no more souls will be delivered at its door. You can spend a lifetime scraping butterflies off trees. You can pierce their wings with your antlers for all I care. But they won’t show you the way to Hell. That place where stars still burn bright. You have been told that you are stardust. That it’s dust to dust. But you won’t be given a second chance to burn bright. You will rot. Congratulations. That’s the fate that has been written for you.
Have you ever seen a tree hold its breath? I’m aware that groups of butterflies go by other names, but the word I learned is flutter. That’s what’s carved in my brain, past the point of no return. There’s a reason Death uses butterflies to coax corpses into giving up the ghost. If I had to choose between a flatline and wings with a passing resemblance to a heart, I would follow those butterflies to the ends of the earth too. But you are a bird. You have your own wings, and you should be ashamed of yourself. No wonder those butterflies have chosen to stand still. You should be dying to fly away.
You want me to describe the afterlife? Sure, why not? A group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope. Do you know what that is? Broken pieces and changing patterns. Regrets and what-ifs. When you die, your life breaks into colorful pieces before your eyes. There’s a light. Don’t bother following it. Just put those butterflies up against the light and turn them slowly. With any luck, you should put back together a life you won’t hate with all your heart.
I remember catching bugs and using butterflies as bookmarks in my diary. Death fluttered inside my ribcage, and I counted the days until I ran out of things to write down. It was naive of me to think that if I immortalized my childhood, I would be able to leaf through my old diary and cling to life. When my heart died down and I inevitably lost interest in my surroundings, the memories were there. Every last handwritten word. But what I had once felt had already slipped through the net.
I am not interested in fireflies. I know what happens when stars get in your eyes, and I have no tears left to cry. Don’t talk to me about hope, I am sick and tired of leaving my door ajar. If I had a net, I would try to catch fawn spots until I ran out of breath. I don’t want to waste my breath wishing things would get better. I deserve to blend in. To slam the door shut and learn to live with the way things are.
Have you ever tried to catch tears with a butterfly net? No, of course not. You are not a child. You outgrew the urge to tear everything apart a long time ago. I bet you are one of those songbirds that would thrive in a cage, but I wanted to make a puzzle out of my tears. I needed to redefine my grief, even if that meant using my fists to make the pieces fit together.
Are you lying in wait, butterfly net in hand? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m afraid my words would only be an eyesore in your display case. I may be a child, but I don’t have crayon-stained fingers. I never learned to write. I typed the first words that came out of my mouth. In black. Apparently that’s not a color. Imagination is a rainbow’s prerogative, and that’s where you should pin your hopes.
It’s just an ugly sweater, it won’t suck your soul. But for the sake of argument, let’s say it will. Chalk and snow aren’t all that different. Here you have it. A clean slate. Now tell me all about your New Year intentions.
I will keep my distance from the world and hope this time the world keeps its distance from me. And if life doesn’t go according to plan, there’s always the moon.
I will try to finish what I start. But I won’t make any promises, I have learned my lesson.
I will hold on to my smile. I will grin and bear everything life throws at me. This time I have science on my side. I have proof that fake smiles can bring out happiness, and I won’t be discouraged.
My dreams won’t slip through my fingers, sand won’t get in my eyes this time. I will spend all my waking hours working towards my dreams. You will see, I will scratch out that hateful word. Before the year is over, I will have something to show for my efforts.
Stars are something you wish upon. The more points a star has, the greater the chance that your wish might come true. But stars are too far away. Deer antlers have points too. Why don’t you wish upon them? Wear this sweater, put your heart into it, and let’s see what happens.
I wish to fast forward my life. Why can’t I just skip this useless childhood?
Most people don’t outgrow their wishful thinking, and I already know that life is easier when you fit in. Please, don’t let me outgrow my childish brain.
Are you hard of hearing? Do I have to lose my voice? I wished for peace. Where is it?
How many points do you have? Do you even count as a star? Daddy always says I had better not build my hopes up. But I’m a child, I can’t help it if my hopes take after my bones. I wish Daddy hadn’t already run out of nice things to say.