A Dream of Ink-Parrots

Do not laugh for I have seen this creature myself and it is not laughable, the silly name was just a joke me and my companions came. In truth, no other species had ever sparked my interest likywise before I met the Ink-parrots. Ink-parrots would not differ from the ordinary Psittaciformes: the same colorful feathers, the same anoyingly inocculative voice. If distracted, one might even overlook the existance of an ink-parrot in surrounding areas, but that shall not be a problem for those who's interest is to find amusing stories. 

In fact, what sets these creatures apart from others from the same kind is their somehow mystical hability to access other universes. If you ever encounter beings like those, beware that this opportunity may be your only chance to hear an amazing story. Ink-parrots carry what some call imagination and others, adventure. The stories told and repeated by these animals are not from this world. 

While listening to the sounds of the Ink-parrots, I took knoledge of the generations and empires of a world of two suns, and found a delighting story about a young woman in a distant land whose garden played an unique melody. 

Lewis took his notebook out at the first word of an Ink-parrot, writing down about an old land of mad folks, talking rabbits and playing card monarchies. It sounded as insane as M.J.'s chosen story, about a boy who could be found in gardens by the nightime. Matthew once told me that the Ink-parrots also described a land with mermaids and pirates, warning me to never let a child declare desbelief in fairies. 

My friends' stories turned into books and theather scripts, and mine I kept to myself. To this day, every writer to whom I tell these stories dreams of finding the Ink-parrots. To those I advice: Ink-parrots are clever thieves, once they give you their wondrous tales, don't be fooled, your memories will be taken aswell. So, before you set to find these mystical beings, make sure that you also have increidible stories to give back.

I do not have still all the memories of my first meeting, some of those were also stolen from me in the future by other Ink-parrots. There are others, however, that I would not be able to stray from, such as the sleepless nights in the woods with M.J. and Mr. Carroll.  

M.J and I were in our twenties, two decades and few stories to be stolen, Mr. Carroll had met such creatures before and appropriated of their tales. Nowadays, I understand why he looked at them in such a different way, not with the same young fascination that we had, but with a wisdom endowed with exchanges of memories, without haste and filled with tenderness. M.J and I wanted to suck out of those poor animals all the fantastic tales they could provide us, drinking from the source the stories of our literary aspirations. Lewis laughed at our enthusiasm for he understood. He, too, had wanted to traffic those memories into Alice's ears, but he had understood over time why doing so would have difficult consequences.

 Whenever a part is given by one of these animals, another part is taken. We storytellers have become a confused patch of reality and fiction. Who would be able to convince Mr. Carroll that Wonderland was not real? M.J. soon also came to believe in Neverland. I was always too skeptical for these fantasies.

 Ink-parrots can repeat all kinds of lies. See, if I told them a love story, from my youth, I'd tell it as I am, not as it was. These beings carry all kinds of delusions and hallucinations of us, storytellers. But still, those are memories. I do not have the courage to say that they are not truthfull.

Truth is a weird concept - that is something I learned with the Ink-parrots. As long as I recall it, I have never met anyone, amoungst those who claimed to have found an un infallible truth, that could convince me of the existance of a true story. All stories are lies, all memories are fake, and these fake wonderous things are what lure storytellers to the habitat of the Ink-parrots.

M.J. and I, after meeting with Mr. Carroll for the first time to plan our expedition, were struck by the possibility of finding one indefectibly unique book idea. Both of us had previously dreamed of telling the world our tales, like those of greek heroes, traveling the lands by the spoken words of others, but things had changed since then.

The world was expanding faster than we could keep track of. New places were to be discovered and stories were about to be risen by other writers. We had no way to acess the far away colonies, so our biggest hope was in these parrots who could find us these stories.

We spent full days and nights listening to these animals, once we found them, exausting their hability to talk. We could not communicate, all we coud do was listen, and we did. M.J's hands were tired and Mr. Carroll had very few energy for the rest of our trip. It was inevitable, we had to cut our expedition short. Lewis warned me not to stay alone with the parrots for too long, but I couldn't go back just yet. It felt, to me, like a crime that others would not be able to hear ou read these. I could not loose the opportunity. 

My biggest fear was that I'd wake up the next day and these mystical creatures would've flown away - or worse - that it all had been a dream. I kept myself awake for the next few days, alone in the woods waiting for the return of my companions, listening to the words that turned into ink in my journals, paper towels, blankets, arms, and anywhere I could write them down. I felt genuinely insane and couldn't bring myself to sleep. 

The new worlds on these words made me wonder how life would feel once I went back to my previous reality. Would there be any of me left in myself or would I be a patch of fantasies with no spark of reality? Parrots talked through the night as I awaited, but no one would come. I am not sure at witch point I fell asleep and woke up here.

It was inevitable, I was sucked into one of their stories, a land in witch people are their own parrots, repeating frenecticly words of others as their own. In the tall buildings, movings images seemed to be talking to me, but they werent. Words were empty and stories, full of greed. One could spend hours listening to some sort of fiction, to later have it change no aspect in their life. This new world is empty in ways that I couldn't imagine, but also full of new hopes and possibilities.

Was it Wonderland? Neverland? Was it only a dream of parrots? Was it an insane product of my bold imagination? I couldn't find the aswer at the time, but, as the days went by it struck me: it was the future. See, the future is much like any other story: just waiting to be told.