In the Philippines, the Himalayas, and Northern Australia, the Moon Orchid is a plant which seems to be very fitting to its name. It looks like it belongs with the title it has been given, which could seem to suggest that it is only present at night, which is not actually true.
The flower can grow in shaded areas, but is not restricted to somewhere that is devoid of any and all sunlight. It is only one of many climates which the flower has adapted itself to grow and flourish in. If it didn’t seem so fitting to the flower’s name, then it would be rather gloomy.
It was once said that dreamers are the ones who can find their way by moonlight and see the dawn before the rest of the world. If this reigns true, then I think I would love to call myself a dreamer, if only so I can see the daybreak or anything of the like before all others. It would be very grand to see something that people try so hard to find, and, even better, to see it all alone.
Some people are the ones who believe that things are supposed to be easily discovered and readily available. Yet, then there are the dreamers. When the stars gleam, the poets are the ones who are dreaming underneath their glow. The artists are the ones who have only the glow of the moon and stars as their light when they aimlessly wander around in the dead of night.
Without dreamers, otherwise known as artists by those who are their fans, there would be no beauty in the world. Everything bleak and grim would only be something bleak and grim. There would not be anything that made people hope. There would be dark tales that would never be given a happy ending. People write about the world so that they can call it as it is. But doing just that would make a boring story. And so, it is more important that there is something that sounds fake mixed in with the reality, so that people can give thought to it and think once more.
Without artists, there would not be anything for people to look at a representation of a glimpse of what the present is. Sometimes the picture is absurd and sometimes it is a lovely thing that people want to frame and hang above a mantle. Either way, people turn to artists in the hope that they will tell them something about the world that no one else is bold enough to admit.
Some people turn to writing their feelings out. Some people write their grievances on a piece of paper until the pencil is dull or the pen runs dry out of ink. Sometimes, it is the lack of more paper that causes people to cease their story. Other times, there is no more original idea to be placed on the paper and, the choice becomes to stop writing or to become repetitive. Often times, it is better to stop writing something than to result in a boring piece of writing. Yet, there are some people who just always find more to say. And then so they say more. Until they die.
Other people turn to making art. It is easy to escape into a piece of art. It can be easy to paint a pretty picture or to make something out of clay. Some people just like being able to feel their artwork as it is being made. It would be much easier than not knowing where one is going.
However, there are many people who stick to arts and crafts they made when they were little children. Some people will continue to make snowflakes until they drop dead or lose their fingers, whichever comes first. It takes them back to times when all that mattered was if their friend could come over and then for how long. It meant sleepovers and water gun fights.
As the guy who seemed to be a talented artist, complete with a sob story as his background, held out his newly completed snowflake, I wondered if there was something more to his story. It would be rude to pry, but he seemed to tell me the macrocosm, and so I figured that we were now entering into territory that people often can use as a door into much more.
“So, if you’ve always had snowflakes and not books, then did you ever read anything or was that something that never tickled your fancy?” It was an innocent enough question, and so I figured that he wouldn’t be offended. He seemed to be fine with the question; seemed promising.
“I read plenty of novels. I never cared very much for classical literature, though. It seemed too dreary and there was often no point in any of it. Especially writers like Dickens.”
“Then you never understood a thing that he was writing. You were probably one of those people who looked up the plotline and then decided that it was too much to go ahead and read it for yourself, and so you missed the entire point of the work. People like you are what ruin an English class and prevent everyone who read the book from having a discussion on the book.”
“Let’s play ‘Spot the English Major.’ Look there, I seem to have won on my first try at the game.” I would be amused if he weren’t so ignorant about works of art. “Oh dear, it seems that I have offended the literature nut. Perhaps I should quote poetry to you. ‘All the world’s-’”
“Okay, okay, I give in,” I said, laughing hysterically. “There’s no need to go ahead and butcher poetry, even if the goal was reached.” He was having fun, and it suited him well.
“So, is there something better to throw your way? What about this, ‘I took the one less traveled by, and that made all the difference’? Does that work better for you, curator of all which makes high school students cry and anguish?” There he went again, cracking jokes at me.
“No, it doesn’t work better, thee who chops up all which is good and then throws it to the vultures as food.” I was trying so very hard to keep a straight face, but I simply couldn’t.
“See, now you’ve got the hang of it, critic of everything dreadful.”
“Says the one who lights the fire to burn the books.” It was not that good, I know.
“You were doing so well, and then you lost your almost winning streak.”
“Okay, so then what shall we go about doing now? It’s your choice.”
“What about you tell me what you would do to get away from the world?”
“Well, I don’t have any horror stories like you, so it’s not all that interesting.”
“Then begin by telling me what your life was like before you came here.”
“I had a brother. When he was little, he would come up to me in the grocery store and decide to wrestle me. It could be cute, except he was restless and so very energetic. My mom would tell him to stop, but I honestly never cared about it one bit. He was my little brother.”
“See, yours is the typical story. But that’s because you’re his older sister and you were probably insanely sweet to him. That’s what sisters are like. You probably dressed him up in princess costumes and he played dolls with you, I’m sure. You could even paint his nails and do his hair if you wanted. He wanted to be like you, and it was really cute, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what it was like.” I was laughing. It was true. “I did all that stuff with him, but he loved doing all of it. He loved being able to be a part of my life. I wanted him there, too. It’s different with a brother and sister, I suppose.” It was very different.
“So, then what did you do to escape the world and your problems from it?”
“I ended up making sure that I could always find a place where I could jam out to music or lounge in a beanbag, reading a novel. I managed to read things written by people who were around my age or at least not too far from the age I felt I was. It was nice to read about a different world, one in which people were better and easier to understand. I learned that way.”
“So what did you want to get away from? You seem to have the dream life. You had a sweet little brother and it doesn’t sound like your parents were exactly something along the lines of cruel or uncaring. I would kill to have a life like that, free of struggles and pain.”
“No, you wouldn’t want my life.” He looked puzzled. “I never had anyone who could understand me. Sure, I had friends and was able to be popular, so I looked like I fit in. But the world was never how I wanted it. When I read books, I read of people with close friends who had wonderful times with each other. I got ideas of how life was supposed to work. And then, when I went into reality, it was never like that. So I needed the escape to escape what the escape had caused. It was a terrible cycle of never ending horrors I couldn’t run away from.”
“How terrible.” He had no idea how awful it truly was for me. But his was worse.