It’s raining. Downpour – all around her and within her, she felt lost. She was floating in the waters, aimless and fearless. Fear. Wasn’t she always struck by that thought? Not a fear of life or death. But a gripping thought that made every second of life difficult. The necessity to distinguish between right and wrong. And the humane inability to accomplish that. Oh wait! That inability isn’t just limited to the human race. The protagonist of our story – the ‘she’ – is not a woman. She’s a flower. Beauty. Charm. Attractive. Indeed, flowers must be feminine only. But then, Biology class might teach you something else. Forget Biology. Forget Science. Forget reason. It is just a flower we are concerned about. That beautiful flower that leaves me sleepless. There’s only passion. Beauty. Miracles. And marvels. Not reason. Not explanation.
It’s still drizzling. Yeah, the impact has died down. But lingering yet. The spirit of the waters has quenched the thirst of the soil, outflowing every borders. And the land in return, has let the sharp pricks of the silver needles seep down into the girth. Is sorrow the mood? Quite unlikely, as her bright shining face waved gently, in the following breeze. Blissfully, the sky rendered peace, the waters cleared and the soil was warm again. She looked around and smiled. The distant look was returned almost immediately, from the one just beneath her. The white little face that stared emptily at her. What did they – the humans – call that white face? She knew no names. It was just a plain bleak white face that she opened her eyes into day after day. She knew no words. She knew no meaning. But hollow eyes were talking a lot to her. She endured pain and fear and loss and shame. Every single time she looked through the pair of emptiness. She felt like her spirit was stolen from her by the ominous white presence. She feared. Not of withering away. But of losing herself. Her soul. Her secret. Her beauty. Her charm. Her uniqueness.
And then it happened, “I want the red one up there! The white one is too tiny.” “It’s all the same dear! And the red is too high for me too reach. Here you go, take the white one.” The two voices walked away from her, with the white little face clutched in one of their hands. Was she imagining the white face grimacing at her? The voice inside her head was too loud to ignore. All the same? That empty white face and me – we are all just the same? A world crashed. The downpour began. The silver needles pierced the earth. The soil quenched it’s thirst but writhing pain. The breeze waved again. And she glowed again. Bliss again. Was it acceptance? Or the relief of easy escapism?
Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry
The Last Straw 