Behind the flowers

Since childhood, I admired the beauty of flowers: how delicate and striking a species can be, in their silence and solitude, like little fairies awake, waiting for their deathbed. That made them so special to me, so significant in my life that I could watch them for long periods of time in my mother's garden, although, to be honest, they were always infested with insects, which filled me with a deep hatred for those little bugs that slowly, slowly, drained their vitality.

Back then, I didn't understand the cycle of life, so meaningless to a completely silly eight-year-old. All I could say was, "Oh, sometimes I think flowers are kind of silly, why don't they ever defend themselves against those little bugs?"

Of course, I had no knowledge of biology, as I could only believe myself superior to creatures "totally inferior" to me.

I had no idea that my life would also be absorbed like a plague, slowly sucking away all my joy, just like plagues. I became what I mocked the most: a withered, dried flower, fading with every moment of its life.

Before, so oblivious to pain, and now, having it so close, I couldn't explain the deep bitterness in my heart.

I fought my own thoughts, plagues that haunted and tormented me every day. I simply wished at some point I would finally wither away: rot as much as I thought I was inside.

This happened when I was only eleven years old. I even planned my life only until I was thirteen, the sweet, painful age of entering pre-adulthood.

But a significant moment was when I was about to give up. The flowers appeared again; my lifelong companions, those who, without realizing it, had become one of me.

It was just a moment, as I went about my grueling daily routine. In front of me was a small flower, surrounded by its sisters who couldn't stand the long journey. There it was, struggling to get out of that gray, rocky swamp, so alive, its petals so bright. Behind it, there was only an admirer, a tiny bud, stretching with all its might to reach its joyful protector.

Then, in that moment, I saw myself for the first time, the moment I relived, the moment I was reborn inside.

Where my deep sadness, in which I was immersed, only needed some color. I needed to return to what I cherished most, what I hated most, the plague I so desperately wanted to eradicate from my being: only by feeding it more and more, until the thought of color became absurd.

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Being myself, loving things that represented my withered and weak self, had convinced me I should leave it behind, without realizing that I had lost myself in the process.

The plague I had nurtured, the same plague I had sown in my profound totality of absurdity.

But at that time, I took it as a sign, a stupid sign for some, but for me, it was a sign that I could be reborn. My heart could be deflowered, corrupt, infected, and filthy, but within it, the roots of light, which I thought had been abandoned, were growing strongly, behind all the faded flowers.

The little flower was growing.