flower on the hill; before the last petal fall



-- by Blue


You probably haven't seen the flower growing on the peek of that hill over yonder. You obviously can but you never looked. But maybe I'm wrong and you have actually already seen it. Yet it's all the same because even as I tell you this, you don't know what I'm talking about, do you? Don't worry, I already expected it to be that way. But if you truly disagree with me, and you're sincerely telling the truth, then I would like to thank you. 


That flower had a story. Everyone does. And like most stories, it needs to be heard. Keeping it would be a waste. 


It started as a small little bud, until it bloomed, greeted by the buzzing world. It sang songs through the empty wind. It danced along its breeze with a silent music. But the world continued on with its buzzy business. It did not hear the flower's songs. It did not stop to watch it dance. The world never stopped turning for a single flower. Was it because it was just a single flower? 


"No," the flower said to itself one day. "It is because I am a weed. I am a weed, aren't I?"  No one told it that, yet the empty response of the world made it seem like it agrees. Within that answer it stood still, waiting for something. Perhaps for anything to change. It waited until it withered, unable to move from where it rooted itself on the soil. Its petals fell in silence. No one ever saw for no one would ever turn their hands to something they didn't hear, one they wouldn't know existed. 


"If only it rained. I'm sure the rain would hear me. The rain would give me the melody and sing along my songs, The rain will give me the music to dance to. It will listen to everything I say. If only I could go to the rain. If only I could cut away these roots. I know I am no ordinary flower. I swear I can still live without being attached to the earth. I know I can, and maybe along the way I would have the courage to let go and erase the doubts that I could not. But sometimes I just wish I could be brave enough to ask for anyone to find me a pair of scissors, or a trusty shovel to pull myself away. Ask them to help me help myself."


On top of this certain hill, there is a flower withering and its flowers begging to fall. If you knew of it and if you remembered. I would like to thank you. If you watched and you listened, double is my gratitude, If you helped it, oh kind soul! I hope someone, maybe even yourself, will come to help you too. 



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