many people knows her by the name little daisy. the little daisy they know was always supposed to bloom, blossom, thrive, and grow — to withstand drought and rainstorm, to flourish a garden or even the entire forest if you would; doing what fairies should. but several times, lately, she questions “do fairies wither just like flowers do?”, “when magic is quietly slipping from the tip of their fingertips, do they wilt like petals too?”
the thing is, in the past few days, she wasn’t always kind — but, she tries to be. today, to others; tomorrow, to others; next week, to others; always and forever; to others. to others, because it’s hard to be kind to your own self — that she knows very well — so she never tries to be. not today; not tomorrow; not next week; not ever; not forever.
she likes providing hospitality so much, it somehow becomes a part of her personality. she takes the word ‘kindness’ and ‘happiness’ seriously. faking them is not an option for her. so she likes making a home for others; one that has a nice smell, one with great abundance of foods, one that oozes warmth, one that feels like a long hug. she likes to see others happy by giving a piece of kindness, or two, or a lot, to them. she likes to see happiness plastered on others in the serenity of her homemade safe haven. she likes to become a home for others, because she can never make a home out of her own self.
do not come for her expecting tales about herself. instead, come for her when you want to hear stories of the world — the ever changing world we live in, and I promise, you would see the brightest of eyes glisten at the whisper of words slipping out from the crown of your lips; for her soul has been travelling all around the globe, across galaxies, throughout dozens of lifetimes, and along the passage of time.
because she sees the world like how she sees love. the earth is her lover, her mother, the womb that holds her first unbecoming — the witness of both her beginning and end; the sweet company during her birth and the friend beside her death bed.
she sees the world like how she sees love. and she sees love like colors, actually. or perhaps, hues. or anything that has shades of reds and blues. like the changing tints of leaves throughout seasons, pigments of flowers, the crayons that children sometimes eat only to get yelled at by their mothers, stain of downpour and the spurt of dirt that comes along with every falling droplets, paints of cute houses in that particular friendly neighborhood, wash of crimson and violet in the sky, and the flushes of pink that arises from the heat of blood rushing through the veins on humans face; she sees the world like how she sees love, and she sees love so bleak, so raw, so crude, and so true.
sadly, she sees the color blue in her world more often than not, these days. and it makes her sad. she used to love the cold hue so much because it reminds her of the limitless ocean and the open sky, but she is scared of those two things now because they remind her of how small and insignificant she really is amongst all the majestic creations of God himself.
maybe what happened to her was grief. maybe it’s grief — maybe she’s grieving for herself. maybe it’s the grief and how it resonates with her — a love that has nowhere to go. and so she is sad, so she is grieving; because she is the love that doesn’t know where to go, the love that doesn’t know where to belong.
she never wants to see a sad her in your eyes, but now you have already.
#np: a sad me in your eyes by 昨夜派對 (L.N Party)
