sketches by fibrja
Us, the flowers,
thought our time to be cut short only to grow stronger. The need to release the past to breed the future selves.
Us, the flowers have never in our way become so fragile and old as to be easily engulfed by darkening feet crashing over us, the flowers.
Us, the flowers don’t morn or grieve, that would be unwise and plain stupid, to feel such feelings for us-selves, always blooming in continuous stillness.
Us, the flowers and our roots, a mere bureaucracy, as all that is essential to be flowers, as one could only need, is to be part of the whole concept of us, the flowers… right?
Us, the flowers, thought our time to be cut short only to grow yet stronger, but what of the times us, the flowers, are forced to let us-selves out of our natural birthplaces? Roots. Us, the flowers, become what then? Rootless, no need to be part of the whole concept.
Free, becoming free, drenched in water or left forgotten in a window sill, becoming free, free, not growing as one is expected to, not helping us, not breeding and still not an unbecoming, breathing, not yet blooming, in continuous stillness.
Forced but not regretting the cut.
Us, the flowers, in our ways not fragile and not dying, breeding tomorrow at the cut of a scissors, releasing the past, in our own way, the only way.
Us, the flowers, but not every part of the whole concept of us, the flowers, the parts closer to the roots, always think of the way, not giving, not breeding any thoughts for the plucked or cut or stepped or, daring, dead.
The whole concept of us, the flowers, defined by absence of void or death, and yet I am void and also death, yet breathing, blooming into something singular, unique, yet in continuous stillness, a flower.