It

“It is what you want it to be.”

I’ve repeated the words to myself countless times. Infinite, infinite, infinite.

They were words from my father; probably words from everyone’s father, or their mother, their sister, their brother, their teacher, their co-worker –blah, blah, blah– they’re pretty common words majority of us beings have likely heard one place or another, but sometimes I can’t help to wonder. Wonder what exactly that means, what exactly I want it to be anyway, whatever it is.

I have no idea. At this point, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be quite sure.

What I do know is that everything out there has a good side and a bad side, and that no matter what I choose to do, there will be something that will bring me down and tear me apart, but also something that will lift me toward the sky and bring me the brightest light I’ve ever seen. At the end of it all, the important thing is the ratio of the two enemies and whether or not there will be more good than bad, or if, in other words, it will be worth it, but that’s more the riddle itself than it’s decipher, one that I haven’t moved on from yet.

What’s good for me? What’s bad for me? What’s good for me? What’s bad for me? It’s become my homemade version of the flower petals and the “he loves me, he loves me not”, and as I lay in a vast field, serenity’s placebo, away from my responsibilities as well as everyone and everything, that is, besides the dying blades of grass and the sparkling stars up above that make me feel fairly dimmed, I still don’t know. I reach a dead end, that stupid cul-de-sac of life.

But a barn owl hoots in the distance. I can’t see it in the darkness – heck, I can hardly see my own hand if I hold it out in front of me – and I realize that my mind can give me a picture that my eyes can’t. The gears start turning, and the past comes flooding back to me in the form of memories, itty bitty details from my childhood and my teenage years that I’ve unconsciously buried inside of my heart return when I thought I lost them. I’m given the ability to understand, a longing to persevere and to stand taller.

My relatives liked to call me the owl of the family. I’ve always comprehended that to mean “wise” and I think that’s what they thought it meant too. While my siblings developed a love for partying and going out and spending money, I liked to stay home. I’d turn in every assignment on time and I was better at listening than I was talking. If I had the free time, I’d use it to read or maybe to watch a sitcom every once in a while as a guilty pleasure. I’d write until my eyes were heavy and I couldn’t keep awake. Somehow, this was the definition of good, beautiful, splendid choices, what a person was supposed to be in life or at least what other people liked for someone to be.

The thing is, there’s more to a barn owl than the so-called wisdom, and there’s also more to me. Why yes, I’ve heard that the ears of those owls could practically serve as their eyes, better than any other animal ever studied. In pitch black, they can catch every mouse in the vicinity, and have served as a farmer’s best friend when it comes to crop-eating insects and pests. I too, have always valued the power of loyalty and trust to the ones that I love the very, very most, and when the creepy-crawlers of our lives come through to do nothing but mess with them, it’s second-nature for me to step in and be there for them, in whatever way they may need it and however it would be possible. Even during nightfall, possibly preferred. After all, I’m out here with the owls in the first place because I find the darkness quite lovely.

And yet, it’s not a perfect creature, and neither am I. In many cultures, it’s a symbol of badness, death, misfortune, weeping and ruins. In writings from authors and poets decades ago, it defines desolation and loneliness. Sure, it’s not something I’d want to admit in a pleasant, casual conversation, but it almost hits too close to home. Far too often, I find myself with my heart empty and nearly too exhausted from doing nothing besides pump blood to my body, rather than be involved in a bond to love and to cherish.

It’s okay though, I swear. My father said “it is what I want it to be” and I know. I know now, finally. I've been inspired by the sound of the night.

I want to be true. I may be capable of the wisdom of an owl here and there, but I’m also it’s entire being. I am my good and I am my bad, and truthfully that’s the reality of all of us.

I love it. Don’t get me wrong, I strive to improve everyday, but I love my imperfection while I have it.

I cherish every piece of me inside and out.