One afternoon long ago, about a century or so, I was strolling in the woods, walking into splintered sunlight*.
I came across a beautiful strong flower living near a small lake. Its pure white petals drew me into its eye. I bent down, my long dark waves following me. Face to face, I saw his yellow iris, rimmed in blood red, with purple specs of drama that lived within.
I lowered my precious body to meet the ground, the clean dirt, where a whole other world lived. I was struck by his strength, his aroma that begged me to love him. I did, chains and all. Who wouldn’t. One could not deny being intoxicated by this flower. Yet, as immediately as I threw my form to the dirt, I noticed I could not see my reflection within his iris. I only saw his beauty. This grandiose flower only had its own beauty to behold. I tried to sway him, this way and that; without success.
Mindlessly, I stayed near him, for his scent had this sedative effect on me. Was I in love? Was I being tricked by his beauty, and his charm? Should I leave? If I take my naked feet to the opposite direction, I will never smell that scent of desire again, feel those strong petals taking in the sun, the rain and the moon.
Sadly, I turned away, mud in my toes, and I ran towards the lake to cleanse myself. Yet, I became motionless, voiceless, without the echo of my own love for this flower, for I didn’t want it, did I?
I watched the flower from afar, numbed by its own intoxicants, fall deep into its own pond of tears leaving its petals to wilt and drown in its own self-love, resenting my desires for him, causing those who did love him to suffer from his grandiosity. Eventually he died of unharvested love and the thirst for compassion.
*”splintered sunlight ” by Philip Lesh / Robert C. Hunter