Ouroboros: a circular symbol that depicts a snake or dragon devouring its own tail. The Ouroboros serpent is a Greek symbol that represents unity and the natural eternal cycle of destruction and re-creation.
What story do you have to tell?
I sit at my desk, facing the piece of paper that stares blankly back at me. I don’t know how long I’ve been waiting here, wasting away, sinking deeper into my stupor of frustration and self-doubt. A bead of perspiration trickles down my stuffy collar. I tap my pencil idly on the wooden desk and feel each echo penetrating my ears, urging my brain to snap awake and whip up something wonderful, something worth writing about, and most of all, something worth reading.
I muster up my resolve to scribble a couple of stray words and watch as they quickly flit off the page, my disapproving eraser following close behind. Powerless, I sigh as my unsuccessful writing attempts repeat themselves. Somewhere deep within me, I sense the Ouroboros serpent approaching. Goosebumps spring up along my arms as I feel its scales brush against my leg.
“Run,” I hiss to my breathless pencil, “Why do you keep letting the eraser swallow your hard-earned efforts?”
My fingers slacken and my exhausted pencil crashes to my desk, its tip cracked in its futile endeavors to avoid my critique. Eraser streaks litter the desk surface, leaving a tint of frustrated pink on an otherwise blank and stubborn piece of paper, the only witness to my ruthless reproval.
In final resignation, I close my eyes and hear the deafening howl of the Ouroboros snake as it chomps down fervently on its own tail.
…
As I open my eyes, I find myself sitting at the same desk, three years in the past. I watch myself tear my watercolor sketches into shreds, letting them flutter, like the feathers of a fallen angel, into the bottomless abyss.
Ten minutes later, I look on bemusedly as my mother pulls scraps of my sketches out of the trash can.
“Why are you throwing these away?” She protests, “The colors are so vibrant and alive.”
“No,” I insist, shaking my head, “You don’t understand. It’s ugly.” It’s not worth looking at, I tell myself. It’s not mine. But my voice cracks and splinters into fragile shards of glass.
I watch the glowing Ouroboros serpent as it renews itself in a delirious, frantic chase after its tail. The snake’s flashing ruby eyes seem to warn me, Don’t you see how ridiculous this is? Why do you insist on swallowing your own tail?
“It hurts,” I whine to the impassive serpent, “I know it’s hurting me. I know it’s not the eraser’s fault; it’s mine. I’m the one stopping myself…” My nails dig into my palms, and my hands clench into trembling fists. Knowing I’m the problem doesn’t change anything if I can’t do anything about it.
Gazing into the gaping jaws of the basilisk, I see my exhausted complexion reflected in its gleaming teeth, a delicate shade of frustrated pink. “I just want to write well. I just want to write something worth reading.”
The Ouroboros serpent laughs at me, brimming with mirth. Silly child, let go of your pride.
I inhale sharply, answering defensively, “I’m not being arrogant. There’s nothing wrong with having high standards.”
But can you reach them?
“Sometimes the only way to see improvement is to push yourself to the limit.” I refute, refusing to back down.
Is being hypercritical what you call having high standards?
“I-”
Does having high standards matter if you can’t even write a proper sentence without erasing it?
I look away. I can’t muster up the courage to reply to the Ouroboros snake anymore. Disappointment and disdain are clearly reflected in its eyes.
Yes, you’re right.
It doesn’t matter if I have high standards if I can’t even get my words out on paper. It doesn’t matter if I want others to like my writing if I can’t even finish the writing process… If I can’t even enjoy the writing process.
So maybe it’s okay then, I tell myself, if it doesn’t end up exactly like what I imagined. It’s okay if the words clump together like runny porridge or if they don’t click into place right away.
Slowly, I face the Ouroboros serpent.
“I don’t know why I was so bent on swallowing my own tail; I guess I just got used to chasing after it. But if there’s two things I now know for sure, it’s that my tail tastes awful, and I’m done with getting in my own way. My writing is vulnerable and imperfect, and I think I like it just the way it is.”
Steadily, I make eye contact with the snake, and to my astonishment, a story begins to unfold in its fiery scarlet eyes. In its warm flames, I see my mother painstakingly gluing each piece of my scattered paintings back together. She turns to me, holding up the finished product. “Look at it!” She beams. “It’s yours.” The splotches of lurid crimson scream out at me, begging to be fixed. The cracks of where my sketches were once torn leaves ripples across the painting’s watercolor surface. But for once, I see that it’s beautiful; the drops of cherry watercolor swirl with the ripples, illustrating a Monet-esque depiction of a solemn autumn day.
The very moment the thought crosses my mind, the Ouroboros serpent unhinges its jaw and sinks its ivory fangs deep into its fleshy tail. A shriek escapes me, and I jerk away, dreading the splurt of warm blood that will drench me from head to toe. I wait for it, but it doesn’t come.
When I hesitantly glance back at the serpent, much to my surprise, it is straining and tugging on its loose flesh. A seam splits along its thick body, and the Ouroboros snake starts to writhe and tremble as it begins to shed its skin, fulfilling the final phase of its cycle of unity. Its wrinkly scales cascade to the floor, and the basilisk proudly bears its new emerald coat, one that shines even brighter than before.
I watch, transfixed, as a new world opens up before me. I witness the rebirth of the little starling perched by my window; when my ears are flooded with its cheery song that’s always slightly off-key, I feel, for the first time, that it sounds just right. I see skies spotted with freckles of clouds and glowing chimera butterflies, distinctive because of their rare asymmetrical wings. Eyes shining, the snake shows me arid canyons, steaming hot springs, and roaring volcanos, each one a blemish in the Earth’s fine crust. The Ouroboros serpent shows me the planet Earth, eternally spinning on its tilted axis, forever teetering on the edge of equilibrium…
…
When I open my eyes, the beads of sweat under my collar have long since evaporated, and the piece of paper waits expectantly under me, ready for me to take charge.
What story do you have to tell? The question is intimidating, and it rings in my ears. Right as I feel a hint of fear settling upon my shoulders, I hear the rustle of the Ouroboros serpent. I can feel it rearing back and baring its fangs, getting ready to strike upon its tail.
“You can leave now,” I tell the snake.
My writing is vulnerable and imperfect, and I like it just the way it is.
Instantly, a gush of passion overflows me, reminding me of my love for writing whatever comes to mind. I let my pencil flow freely as it races to keep up with my stream of consciousness. I am lyrical stanzas and melodies tightly woven together in an emotional embrace; I am late nights huddled under the covers, writing a passage so thrilling that even my fatigue can’t drag me to bed.
After all, I’m no Goldilocks. Maybe it’s okay if my story isn’t “just right.”
I take a deep breath and steady my grip on my pencil. The eraser has somehow fallen off my desk, and for once, I leave it there.
In a whirlwind of butterflies, I let my words escape me, fluttering out of my grasp. They frolic and dance as if the sheet of paper were a stage, and my gaze, the spotlight. The streams of light shine down on the Ouroboros serpent waltzing across the stage with my pencil, and wisps of my renewed color and creativity accompany my begrudging past “failures” onstage. I sit at my desk, in the first row of the audience, beaming as everything unfolds in front of me.
This is my story to tell.
And trust me, it’s worth reading.
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