Moo, Shipoopi, and Shoopuf

In a beautiful meadow, flowers bloom and radiate like a burning red, sea. The flowers shimmer and show their pride together.

Occasionally, a yellow flower is born. It seems as if that yellow flower is doomed to grow in solitude. The red flowers bear their thorns and stab into the yellow flower’s fragile beauty and self-respect. The yellow flower then shrinks into its own little space, letting the other flowers absorb the rain from the sky while it desperately embraces the soft, neutral soil. The soil, which cannot provide the consolation that the flowers can provide, simply sits, in solitude, not appreciated. The lonely flower cries. It withers a little. The leaves grow holes. The flower seems to have lost its beauty. It cannot wait to just turn into a dandelion and disappear into the wind, hoping that one day, its seeds can bring joy to someone.

If only there were not multiple, separate meadows; if only there was only a single meadow, where everyone is gathered together. Then, maybe, just maybe, that yellow flower could have a better chance of finding a friend. In meadows, there is no human gardener to nurture the flowers. The flowers stand alone, if they stand at all.

The yellow flower was lost. No one cared. Instead, the other flowers seemed to only constantly look through some filter: a filter that prevented togetherness, a filter that created hurt. The flowers couldn’t see the tears because they didn’t want to. They didn’t want to see what could bring their pride down. Pride, confidence, their figure in the meadow was all that mattered to these flowers. The yellow flower, however, longed to be freed of solitude, to grow tall and be able to reach the sun. Instead the flower shriveled back into the ground where it came from, where it belonged. Out of the sun and into the shadows, all that remains is a sad sigh.

To think that some people find it a crime to trample the red flowers, to “accidentally” step on them.