ORIGIN: Since we couldn’t shake off the cold, we decided to kill it of embarrassment. We rooted around for and ugly sweater, and that’s when these deer caught our eye.
Poor, poor deer. You turn your back, but you can’t help looking back. It’s as if your neck were possessed by an owl, your head twists of its own accord. You have the kind of antlers that would effortlessly pass for wings. Shedding them is no use. They keep growing back. Stronger. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about the landscape that haunts you? I have heard that sharing helps lessen the burden.
Dreams aren’t all that different from mirages. Water in the desert. What makes you keep going, when nothing else seems worth living for. Don’t get me wrong, I would prefer something tangible, something real, but I can’t build a castle with dry sand. I have tried, time and again, but I can’t get attached. The wind keeps blowing my feelings. Who knows, maybe if sand got in my eye, and I cried a tear or two, I would see what everybody else sees. People. Tall buildings. A bustling city. But the wind doesn’t blow in that direction. If mirages have taught me anything, it’s that it is easier to fall in love from afar.
Sunsets and breaking waves. Youth. Giving your all. Until your fire burns itself out and the last kernel bursts into tears. Wave whites remind me of popcorn. Enthusiasm was the first to go. Motivation followed in its wake. Like a countdown. But the numbers were hurt, and they ended up bleeding into one another. Before I knew it there was only hope left. Fruitless efforts. Rot everywhere. Night had fallen over my tears. And I will always be grateful for that small comfort. Because some fireworks are better left unseen. It would have been an open invitation, and I would rather be haunted by how I spent my youth, not the end result.
Chlorophyll green is not the color of hope. It’s the color of dependence. How long can you go without air in your lungs? I need to feel alive. I need to feel the burn of autumn leaves in my lungs. Not the difference between life and death. The difference between life and just being here, acutely aware of my apathy. I hate forests. Even though they are the ones made of wood and strings of sunlight, I am the one that feels like a marionette. Without a say. This obsession has me in the palm of its hand. I hate knowing that I will be at the mercy of that burn until the day I die.
Given the choice, I wouldn’t be a herd animal. But I was born in a city. I was taught to write and read, and my fate was sealed. I don’t like the word introvert. Quiet. Shy. That’s not who I am. Plants thrive on sunlight, and most animals believe that there is safety in numbers, but I don’t take my happiness from other people. Loneliness is beyond me, and crowds are too noisy, but I don’t see myself living anywhere else. I could be happy on a desert island, but this city has spoilt me. I would take a book. It’s not a child, but it also takes a village. That’s why I would never raze society to the ground.
Face the mirror, my deer. Lock antlers with your reflection. There’s no point in trying to deny who you are.
Heroes die, cowards live to see another dream. It won’t come true, of course. But no mouse in its right mind would even try. A cat taught me that. It’s better to believe that your dream can still come true than to have definitive proof of your failure.
I have seen where envy leads. Theft. Destruction. I have to stop that monster in its tracks. Not dead. I am what I am, and the eyes wish what they wish. That monster can’t be killed. But I can set my sights on a different prey. Someone safe. Out of reach. Like those stars. That will never lead to blood on my hands.
I am a creature of habit. My name is set in stone. My likes and my dislikes are set in bone. There’s no more growth left in me. No point in changing my routine or challenging myself. I found myself when I was 17 years old, and setting out for parts unknown won’t magically realign my bones.
Hope takes its toll. Hope promised me a beautiful flower, and I am still here, waiting for the full bloom, even though I have spent most of my life covered with wrinkles and scars. Because the alternative would have been having nothing at all.