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Articuno
Who am I, to complain? Every
day she climbs the stairs of her mansion to change the sparkling clean
water, to empty out the untouched food and replace it with more. It is
the most expensive food on sale, and I am grateful for it.
The floor of my cage is never dirty, yet I can still not bring myself to call it a home… it is made of thin strips of gold. The sunlight reflects off the bars, dividing into a thousand beams that shine onto the water where the candles float. I am never too warm in here, and the room is decorated especially for me- white, blue, silver. Every day she looks at me and smiles, sings. I sing too, but when she’s not there. I sing to the sky, to the sea, to the ice, and I cry for the rain. Every day she glances around the room, sometimes she paints from photographs that lie on the table. Photographs of places far, far away. Sometimes she hangs the paintings up on the walls, a small square reminding me of the mountains or white-sand deserts in the moonlight. And when she’s gone, I pretend I was there. I
pretend I am flying again. I remember the air lifting me up into the
sky, my wings stretched out like clouds, the sea crashing so far below,
crashing onto the rocks. I remember, and in a second my eyes make their
own rain. It is the only rain I have felt in a long time, and I feel it
every day. It stains me
with grief.
But, who am I to complain? I am not a battling Pokémon. I am in perfect health, perfect condition. She lets me out of my cage sometimes. I can fly, a little, but only a little. The second I start to feel freedom, the ceiling or the walls rush out at me and knock me down. She closes the windows and the door to make sure I am safe, and the paintings taunt me with their lies. I don’t find it any better than being back in my cage, and she doesn’t let me fly as much anymore. It is not flying to me. I don’t know what it is. But it is not flying, not flying without the sky. Sometimes people look at me from the other side of the gold bars. They smile, too. They look at me, trying to connect their eyes with mine, but I look towards the sky. They say I am beautfiul. Why do they say I am beautiful? I have nothing of beauty but my feathers that shine like icicles and my eyes that glow like the moon. I’ve seen beauty enough that could kill the breath of any of these people. I’ve seen beauty that killed the breath of me. Sooner or later, they go. I don’t know where they vanish to, the door closes behind them. Sooner or later the sun fades and the colours die. Sooner or later, I am left alone to sing. Who am I to complain? I’ve seen Pokémon starve to death, freeze in the heat of winter, seen throats crack dry with thirst. I am safe here. I’ve seen Pokémon have their families taken away by a tiny sphere that swallows in a flash of blue light, and I’ve seen friends lose their souls and lie, lifeless, like an empty shell on the ground. But I don’t see any more. All I see, I imagine. I am blind here, I am nothing but a ghost of memories. The room is in shadow now, soft shadow that rests over the world, a gentle breeze, the lullaby that sends me to sleep. But there is never an escape, because my dreams haunt me. I
open my eyes to see the dawn. I never miss the dawn. The moon becomes
nothing but a whisper, and the clouds blush pink. Everything fades, the
day, the night. I have seen them die, over and over again. But they
always reappear. The sky is the only thing that is eternal. Every day, she changes the water that lies in the gold bars of my cage. Every day she smiles and sings as she replaces the expensive food. And, sometimes she paints, from photographs of far-away places that lie dead on the table. But before that happens, I am alone. I watch as the pale morning glow bathes the room in light once more. I watch as the sun begins to float on its hazy pool of fire. The dawn takes the night away with its heartbeat. The stars fade, once more. I watch as they melt into the clouds and the sky. I wonder where they go, like the people. But no door seperates us, only hard, unmelting ice that refuses to break. I watch the stars as they disappear, slowly into their sky. And,
every day, I wish I could go with them.
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