Note: this is meant to be something close to a monologue. I am not really a screenwriter, although I am starting to learn about it, so I will just say that this is a, well, reflection. In every sense possible.

Isn’t it funny? The way people clap their hands? They start what should be a cacophony, but in the end some rhythm kicks in — nobody is thinking about it, and yet nobody loses tempo. When on the giving side, I would be afraid of missing a clap — of being ‘the one that couldn’t keep up with the rhythm’. More often than I wanted, I would be on the wrong side of an applause: the receiving end. Receiving an applause is both a bless and a curse. Everybody likes being glorified that way.

Dry, close-to-death plants get addicted to water. They were in need for so long, they drink avidly any water they receive. They can’t control themselves. They want it, they want it more — they haven’t tasted it in ages, they can’t seem to stop themselves. In the end, they drown. They rotten, killed by the very thing they longed for.

You might have seen some dry plants in your life. Kids who have been beaten down to mud, their skills and personality destroyed by what might have been the smallest thing and yet brought them close-to-death. Kids who grew used to humiliation, to not believing in themselves, to putting themselves last on a world-wide ranking. “I am the worst,” they would say.

Applause, right. The wrong side is the receiving one, and that is particularly true for those kids. An applause is not people clapping hands — it bears a whole burden of wishes, expectations, desires. It is something that moves weight from the clappers to the applauded. The formers free themselves of their fears, their doubts — the latter is unanimously recognized as the ‘best’, the person that from that moment onwards will oversee those problems. Applauding is catharsis for the applauder, condemnation for the applauded.

Dry kids drown in applauses. For some reason — either because they have developed some skills from undergoing pain and trauma, or because they have become stronger through suffering — at some point in their life some of them blossom. They start to shine so bright anyone around just can’t ignore them. They start to scream “I am here!”, and they do it so well they become stars, making others reflect their light. And while this can be a good thing, the dry plant metaphor is a big red flag. They haven’t received any type of acknowledgment of their worth for a prolonged period, and they suddenly start to receive tons and tons of applauses.

I call them the ‘Satellite kids’. They start as rubbish, they end up in the sky. They start as raw material, they become state-of-the-art technology. People invest so much passion, and desire, and expectation in them they quickly begin feeling the most important person in the world. They float above anyone else, sending down information, emanating progress, smartness, control of themselves. That is the visible face. The invisible one faces the chaos and infinity that broadens in the outer space. The invisible one faces meteorites, fragments of matter that begin to hit them, as fast as they can. Their interior chaos resonates with the outer chaos. Their darkness longs for her bigger sister. They see themselves as the peak of humankind. They conceive themselves, and are conceived, as those who will ‘save the world’. They believe that since they suffered for so long, things will be beautiful from that moment right until their death. Their utmost fear is disappointing the people who did put their trust in them. They drown in the support they receive. They rotten, destroyed by the one thing they wanted the most for all those dark years. Because like satellites, a small mistake in calculations could lead them to crash onto Earth.

And oh boy, would the crash be spectacular.

This might be my story, but it might as well not. It just doesn’t matter. What matters is that those satellite kids exist, right above us. They seem unreachable. They seem inhuman. They have a heart.

Reach out for them. Save them from their own perfection.