Writing is my best friend. It is the only thing which keeps me company in nights when my mind cannot quite shut itself up. The words powerfully flows from my brain to the gentle sound of my fingers hitting the keys of my laptop and it relieves me of any emotional and mental burden. My quill has been my shield and my fortress; the mirror which meticulously reflects what my mind is full of.
I had to admit that for six years now, my heart has been filled by a single person. He has been a drug to my quill, bringing forth a psychedelic play of ideas. From my heartaches and hidden merriment upon thoughts of him sprung forth a well of creativity enough to awaken the poet I once tried so hard to chase after. Unknowingly, my writings all bore his mark. His essence was embedded in every letter; his smile graced every punctuation. He was the ink to my quill.
At first, it was satisfying. He deserved it. He was the man who inspired me to bloom by myself and become the woman I am today. It was ironic, though. I thought I could catch the eye of a meticulous gardener with my precious blossoms but I ended up as a neglected dandelion, trying to fight the strong wind just to stay in his garden.
My hard work did not move him but it caught the attention of someone else. Before I knew it, someone kept on coming back just to pass by the fence and appreciate what I have become. I unknowingly let the wind blow my little seed heads and the winds brought a little of my seeds into a new garden. It was queer for me who had been used to blooming in one garden for my whole life but the smile the new gardener gave me gave butterflies to my stomach. And for once, I felt alive.
I was existing in two gardens wanting to uproot myself and let the winds carry me over to the new one but feeling wary about the possibility that I might not survive in a new climate. I wanted to hold on and let go at the same time. Just when I took a deep breath and put my war paint on, I realized how noticeable the change have been. I was not the only flower in the new garden. There were others showered with the same care I received. The affection I once had turned out to be illusory – a mere manifestation of my deepest desire to love and to be loved back in return.
So I chose to wither in the new garden. Death has been painful.
My whole essence went back to the old garden and nothing much has changed. Only, the winds blew much stronger and I fought those as hard as I could. A strong willpower and a stubborn heart could be the worst complements to desperation. All I ever wanted was to pour all the love I had stored in my heart for years to a person who appreciates me for who I am. How hard can it be?
Just when I thought I could hold on and brave out the tornado that blew over the old garden, I relaxed my weary leaves and let the wind carry away not only my little seed heads; I let myself be uprooted. And for the first time in a long time, I felt the winds caress my dying soul. The wind tasted like freedom.
You see, dandelions are not meant to stay and feel freedom in the sky. It is not an orchid which thrives away from the ground. Death was certain. But the risk I took by letting go, did not at all feel like death. It was like rebirth.
Today, I cannot even quite ascertain where I would end up. I may thrive in the air after all and become at one with the sky or the winds might bring me to a garden where I can spread my seeds all at once in exchange for a warm and sincere smile meant to last my lifetime. I am pretty sure that I am never going back to what the winds have rescued me from.
It may not have been the will of the Great Writer to let me stay neglected in uncertain muddy soil. There might not have been any point in my stubborn persistence. It may have been His special way of telling His one-of-a-kind creature that some stories do not need a decisive ending for it to end. And as I tiptoe in the air, I can only smile warmly because I know how wonderfully He has closed another chapter in my life and opened my eyes to a whole new world of opportunities beyond. I can hear His voice telling me that He was the wind and He wants me to just go along and bloom for Him alone for the time being. He promises a new play ahead but He cannot promise that it would be smooth.
Suddenly, He asked me to close my eyes. When I fluttered them open, I saw a new quill in my hand with an empty inkwell. My brows knit in doubt and I lift my eyes in question. He gave me a loving gaze and told me, “Isn’t writing your friend? Write- this time – for yourself and bloom for Me.”