Rabbit-wannabe

Hiromi Nakajima

I wanted to be a rabbit because they are cute. This was my first time ever in self-denial even without realizing it. To become a rabbit, this is what I did; I put my palms onto my head to be looked like one with tall ears, at every family photo occasion, which was an odd manifest of juvenile transformation. The gesture fueled the childish obsession which depicted, in my mother’s words, a lovely girl but weird. But my heart was running towards the inexhaustible comeliness I had longed for in the picture books and animation films that I could immerse myself into until I cease to exist.

The language wasn’t a language even when they spoke in Japanese, their scripture was translated into my own philosophy of freedom. Whilst I did know nothing about them more, the rabbits, their agony, not only being trapped in a small cage in the local school, with skin disease recounting their wretched physical and mental conditions, that I was shamelessly incompetent to get to know it, and the disagreement on promises leads to desolation where the denial was not enough to shape itself. I might like to blame it on the candy, its extravagant amount of sweetness to send kids into a sugar high.

Wind would savagely penetrate small spaces of my fingers of two tall bunny ears, as if it proved the generous instability of a dream, the bare hands of a little girl were too weak to sustain the structure and then let it all go. The pink diamond ring melted over my fingers, when the hot air effortlessly scraped away the childhood fantasy.