I. Your mother got all her tissues ripped off just so you could see the world. She saw that oblivion is beyond pain and when she tried to reach it, the pain inflicted once again and never left her side until your growing years.
II. Some of your mother’s tissues carry her dreams which subdued after she married your father. Some of them got stuck on your skin on your way out of her womb. At the day of your baptismal, she entrusted you all of it believing that you could fulfill them. That will be the mark of your burdens and there are more to come. Your fate has been decided, and you cannot do anything about it.
III. At five, your father would teach you how to read. He would let you climb on his back so you could see the world. From the top, the world would look like it’s just all blue and green. Few years later, you would see it muddy and white strands are scattered all over its face; so you would ask your father if he could carry you again but he would not let you anymore.
IV. You would learn it from himself. You would learn that this world is terrible and he tried his best just to hand it to you on a silver platter. Unfortunately, a pawnshop nearby glittered at the sight of your matriculation fee. Your silver platter was never redeemed.
V. You would have friends with dozens of siblings. You would play with them, and sometimes you would get into fight. You would start asking why the hell you don’t have any allies and why the hell they do. Ask your Mother. Tell her it’s lonely and you need someone to play with. She’d ask you in return, “Honey, isn’t it nice having your father and I all by yourself?”. I know. I know you can’t tell her that all it ever felt like was solitude. All it feels like is that you are like a stand alone leader of a one persona group and you have to do the deeds yourself, redeem the good points yourself, suffer the disappointments yourself.
VI. Good news. You’ve got a brother. You wonder how would your parents unravel the world to him. You feel remorse towards him but then, you tried carrying him on your arms. It felt like you’re carrying the world.
VII. Your brother turns five. Just like you, your father carried him on his back. He saw the world. You saw his eyes and down them, you saw yourself way back few years ago. He climbed down and ran to the neighborhood shouting that “The earth is blue!! The earth is green!! The earth is so lovely as it may seem!”. Your father would warn you not to tell him what it really looks like.
VIII. Your brother got scraped knees after a day of endless running. You tried to heal it with an alcohol but your mother was already there. She told you that you cannot heal something by hurting. I wished she told me before, my memories of wounds wouldn’t be worse as they are today if she did.
IX. Today, I realized that being a first child meant something. Being the eldest meant something. It means to be the first carrier, to be the first absorber of the world. Now I know why people would carry on expectations to their first born. We serve as warning to the people. We are the harbingers of the threats of this world.
Also, to be a first born does not mean you would have the world in a silver platter first. To be the first child, you must accept the world and set aside the platter. To be the first born meant to carry your brother on your left hand while your right works on the golden spoon you have to feed him.
X. To be the first child means to hand the world beautifully to someone after you. It means you have to be willing to patch them again after the world.
It means that your left hand must not rest while the right hand works. Your left hand will still have to carry your brother at the top of the world you’ve built a silver platter with.