ORIGIN: It was late at night and for a change we saw a handful of stars. That might have altered the destiny of this Brush. The little girl stole the limelight, and it would have taken a magnifying glass to appreciate the little details, so we decided to let the fox and the horse strike out on their own. And the owl would have felt left out, so…
If it’s all the same to you, I would rather throw a handful of stars. The difference in size might be negligible, but confetti is just cold colored paper. It’s happened to me before. A single hot tear was enough to fade all the colors from my world. I am not a washing machine, I don’t want a repeat. This is the longest river I have ever cried, but I am not afraid of third-degree burns. Hiccups are the sharpest scissors. Now I have a handful of rivulets, and soon I will fold them into stars and throw them far, far away from my heart.
When all the perfect pictures turned into confetti, she who got custody of me said that we should celebrate. We didn’t move across the globe, but I no longer recognize the stars above my head. My heart broke, and I wish I could pick up the pieces and throw them out the atmosphere. I wish I could replace these stars that don’t help me find my way in the dark. With something that bleeds. Something that sticks. Because that loving family felt real to me, and she has no right to try and sweep it out of my memory.
Some people throw confetti in the air when they are happy, I throw it when I am sad. You should give it a try, but any color won’t do. The pieces have to be blue, red, yellow or white. I read somewhere that giant stars come in those colors, but I don’t wish upon things that can’t hear me. Paper listens because it’s meant to be written on. That’s why when I feel small and I’m about to burst into tears, I throw confetti wishing its larger-than-life-ness will rub off on me.
Someone once told me that newborns cry because they instinctively know what lies ahead. But I grew up under a lungful of stars. Maybe that is why hope is in full blossom inside me. I am not a scientist, I believe that in the beginning someone threw a handful of confetti and it has yet to fall down. I only have eyes for the things I am grateful for, and it has done wonders for my heart.
I wish I lived in zero gravity. I wish confetti stayed in the air. My bones can rot, for all I care. At first, I thought that grown-ups had all the answers. Later, I thought that they at least learned from their mistakes. But we remain mean little children at heart. More of the same awaits down the road. There’s no point in preserving happiness, I know that it’s better to consume it right here and now. I just wish the taste lasted longer in my mouth.
I have never been a good dreamer. I can’t seem to make these stars into a constellation. It’s as if this horse doesn’t want me at the reins. I won’t lie, rejection hurts, but I have always felt more comfortable sightseeing than dirtying my hands. I would gladly settle for a dream signed by an artist that isn’t me. But maybe my brain leaves much to be desired as a ball of yarn because no cat has ever been tempted to unravel it.
I like horses. The dust they raise. It would be nice if stars could be replenished that way. I want to still be a free spirit when I leave this nest, but the odds don’t seem to be stacked in my favor. The universe is full of orbiting bodies, and all I have is a stack of dusty diaries. I am a quick reader. I turn pages at the speed birds flap their wings. That is how I will say goodbye. Godspeed. I will forget all my yesterdays. It’s not much, but I will break all the chains that are mine to break.
Shooting stars remind me of rats fleeing a sinking ship. It wasn’t always so. I should have stuck to children’s books, but I wanted to broaden my horizons and read something full of bigger words. Even in my wildest dreams, I wouldn’t have imagined that a little bit of light can open the door to depression, but who am I to disagree with a scientific journal? It’s safer to sleep in a dark, dark room, as far as rat-ly possible from any other source of light. People bring each other down, that’s why stars don’t keep in touch. And I am sure that if the moon had any magic at all, that rabbit would have long fled.
I’m glad I wasn’t born a bird. Imagine having to go to the ends of the earth to bring a fallen star for your beloved. Having to prove yourself in the eyes of someone else. I don’t mind giving my heart, but I draw the line at my worth. I have seen blinkered horses before, and I won’t let someone else become my sole focus. Because this isn’t a post-apocalyptic world, and she isn’t the only sight for sore eyes. All of us can be traced back to the same human nature. And, anyway, I prefer landscapes.
I tried to pick my brother’s brain once, but a pair of owls got there before me. His ingenuity was on the verge of death. He was almost ready to step into a world created by someone else. I’ve heard that one day a wolf will gulp down the sun, but I would rather feed the last remnants of my light to a fox. Maybe wolves aren’t artless, but their power is rooted in numbers and sharp teeth. I don’t see how an imagination can be collective and still be called an imagination. I love my brother, but I don’t want to end up in the same mass grave as him.
Foxes are red. The color of anger. The color of mortally wounded giants. I don’t need crickets whispering in my ear. I’m a real boy. I know that red, red anger is the beginning of the end. Some tears are sharper than the points of a star, and I don’t want to bleed to death, but it’s out of my hands. If foxes know the trick to woodening their hearts, they have yet to teach it to me.
Hot air goes up, cold air goes down. I wonder if that’s the reason dreams rocket through the atmosphere and nightmares burrow deep into the heart. Foxes burrow too. Their color reminds me of raw pain. It takes me back to my childhood. When saying, “Pain, pain, fly away,” in a singsong voice did the trick. I remember the weight of my brother’s hand. It felt like gravity. Yes, the nightmares stayed home, but some dreams delayed their departure and that made all the difference.
I will be generous and say that scars exist to keep track of the times you have healed. But my heartbeat insists on reliving the time I was tricked by a fox. He told me that black dots appear when someone stares into the sun and all wasn’t lost. That if I stared into the dark, stars would appear because that is how symmetry works. I became an owl, not knowing that I would only be courting death. Who knows, maybe there’s still wonder left in the world. But what’s the point if my heart is blind to it?
Girl on the right: Rats are fleeing my hair.
Girl on the left: Isn’t that where you keep your memories?
Girl on the right: Yes, it is.
Girl on the left: Can you blame them? You should have left well enough alone. There’s no harm in revisiting memories, but you should know better than to rewrite them. Blue stars might be the brightest of them all, but that’s the color of sadness and no rat wants to sink into a sea of tears.
Owl: I’m about to molt my feathers.
Girls: Does that mean that we get to keep these old stars?
Owl: I don’t see why not.
Girls: Thank you very, very much.
Owl: I hate to break it to you, but there will be no shooting stars. You won’t get to make more than two dozen wishes as my feathers fall to the ground.
Girls: That’s not what we want, silly. We are already old enough to know that wishes don’t come true. We just want a reminder.
Owl: Of what?
Girl: Of the fact that we weren’t always dead inside.
White horse: What are they doing?
Red fox: If I’m not mistaken, they are waiting to be beamed up.
White horse: To the surface of the moon?
Red fox: I don’t think so. Their hair is on end and they must have their sights on some faraway star.
White horse: They want to burn alive?
Red fox: In the blink of an eye. The time it takes for a dream to fade away. I think they want to reverse the process and burn it into their stardust.
Black horse: A little girl named me Shooting Star.
White fox: Let me guess: She was also the one who braided your mane?
Black horse: No, that was her father.
White fox: Why would he do that?
Black horse: I think he’s trying to break her fall. I am the first thing she begged for, her wish come true. She’s still young enough to think that I am the first of many that will follow. And when reality breaks her heart and she looks back, her father doesn’t want her to remember my mane in the wind like the tail of a shooting star or a slap in the face.
Girls: Who needs snow when there are stars?
Owl: But they are out of reach. Don’t your hands feel lonely?
Girls: You are an owl, the opposite of nearsightedness. You should know better than most that dreams get more beautiful the farther away from reality. Snow is cold and it burns. There is no middle ground. People have gone to great lengths to uncover all the spectrum of cruelty.
Owl: If thinking that those stars are the last stronghold of hope helps you sleep at night, who am I to tell you otherwise?
There was a time when Death was black as night and it came on ratback. Mouse slippers can’t be all that different. So, let’s hear your omen.
I heard somewhere that premature babies thrive on touch. My umbilical cord was cut too soon and that could be the reason I needed more love than most. But I grew up in a house with a cordless phone. And tactile screens are too little, too late.
I don’t remember much about my first set of teeth. My mother let me eat all the candy I wanted because those teeth were meant to fall out. I got braces when the taste of blood still lingered in my mouth. Now I have a blinding smile. And a bone-deep feeling that grown-ups dislike ugly truths more than anyone else. Because children move on, but they are the ones that put fairytales in writing.
Water is life. Dark clouds are the quintessential bad omen. It’s no wonder so many people hate being alive.
Someone I knew was fond of the phrase the writing is on the wall, but for some reason she didn’t like crayon marks. Back then, I didn’t know what the word fate meant, but I instinctively tried to take it into my own hands. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to stand in the corner, but there’s a whole city out there. Thousands of walls waiting to be graffitied all over again. There is hope. Because there are higher powers and they don’t care.