Monday, 27 April 2015

Blooming

Overthinking. It's kind of her thing. She doesn't really take risks in life and every step is analysed, considered and translated from her own perspective and through the imagined eyes of a million others.

She worries what others think, don't think, care about or want. She worries if people will misinterpret. She closes herself so far down that she cannot see any constraints. She is sad. She is lonely. She is unaware of this.

Then one day she is thinking as she always does and for a moment she considers who she would be if she was unhappy.

The realisation is blinding.

She is beautiful, successful, confident, free and desperately, desperately unhappy.

She sees herself as a flower. While before she assumed she was a flamboyantly colourful bloom, blasting out scent she now looks and sees that she has withered. Her aroma is all but gone. Her colours were garish and false; created by a filter which could no longer be supported.

Now she is so small, fragile and delicate. It isn't enough. She deserves better. She leaves, intent on herself and her health. She cares more for herself than for the external disapprobation for the first time.

Unobserved, the petals of her soul quiver; sensing an opportunity.

She begins to rebuild herself, one tiny step at a time. It is months before she returns to her flower bed to apologise to herself for her neglect.

When she does, she is astonished. It is fragile still and terrifyingly small, yet her bloom is returning. The petals are tiny, plain, and nestled in among the withered leaves of her former self. Crouching down, she submits herself to a terrifying, wondrously awful inspection. Tendrils that were tentatively peeking out into the light begin to grow in confidence and take a firmer root. The leaves that form the sustenance are darker, richer and stronger than she can recall ever seeing them and, in the center of this frame, lies her one tiny, significant flower.

At first it seems simple, small and white. Something to be improved. But she has learned and is patient. She looks closer.

The petals at first glance appear to be a pure white but this does not extend to the center. At the core, a delicate network of ribboning colours winds through - golds, oranges, reds, turquoise and royal blue - beginning to bleed out into the white which steadily absorbs the kaleidescope. This close, she can catch the scent - elusive, delicate, mature. No longer is she spewing forth the sweet overpowering perfumes of youth. She now produces a slower, deeper odour - tinged with pain and sorrow perhaps, but heady and strong. The kind of scent that permeates and stays with your memory long after the reality has passed.

She has learned, she has grown and with her new sustenance, her soul is rising once again to form a new self. Her new self.

At her heart she is the same, chaos and flamboyance mixed; outwardly she may seem delicate and easily broken but the truth lies somewhere between. The truth lies in her scent, the smell that will not let you go.