Once there lived a little old man, who spent his time alone in a small cottage. The small cottage was situated near a small town, which in turn was close to a larger city. The larger city was part of an even larger country, and that country was a piece in a huge , bustling world.
The old man enjoyed his time alone. It was calm. Serene. Peacefully meandering within his cottage walls. He saw no reason to ever leave.
However, one day, he spied a beautiful butterfly tottering and stumbling on his windowsill. The old man had never seen anything as feeble , having spent most of his years in enclosure, and this sight brought great sorrow to the man. It's beauty fascinated him, the stark colours shining radiantly. It startled this elderly man, he was not at all accustomed to such creatures.
The old man tried to help the butterfly, and as he opened his window for the first time he felt a faint and gentle breeze crease over his wrinkled face. Enraptured by the brilliance of the butterfly the old man thought nothing of it, and he attempted many times to coach the butterfly into his cozy home.
"Life out there must be astonishing and cruel" he chuckled to his newly found friend. The old man tried many times to persuade the colourful insect through the crack in his window, but alas; his efforts were met with a stubborn blindness. Of course they were. The butterfly was not his friend, and as things stood, it remained utterly oblivious of the man's presence. It was a peaceful existence, serene and calm. The butterflies own house, inside a house, inside a town which eventually linked to the rest of a crazy and endless world.
Before his very eyes, the butterfly moved house. It was such an intricate procedure, and the old man had his eyes glued to the sight till the butterfly was gone, swallowed by the outside. It was a bizarre and bewildering moment, one that the man thought hard over. Why choose to go outside when you could spend your days happy and safe enclosed in his cottage? It didn't appear to make any sense.
Days later and the man was still pondering. These days turned into weeks and months , eventually years of thought went past and the little old man still couldn't come up with an answer. It started to frustrate him, this thought that consumed his mind night and day with no end in sight. The years slipped past, and the old man's mind was becoming torturous. This sheltered human with little experience of the outside had no answer for it. It was a complete and utter defeat. And although inside the cottage everything was peaceful and serene; the man's mind was a battlefield. Nothing felt safe, and he became more and more crazed in his mental labour.
There came a point, as will happen to any one of human kind: when curiosity got the better of his fear. The old man who hated the thought of venturing out into the dark and unknown, became tempted to wander out and find his answer. The parasite in his mind was slowly eating him out, sanity and all the dressings, and he forced himself , trembling, to head carefully and slowly towards the unknown.
Unlatching the door to his home, his haven for as long as he could remember, the old man stepped out gingerly and peered at his surroundings. Panning out in his field of view, he saw trees, grass, large green things sprouting everywhere, dotted with splashes of brown and yellow. Small flying creatures of shades he had never before seen popped out of hidden niches that were invisible to naked eye. This all frightened the man in a way he had not before felt; his heart thumped in his ragged old chest and he placed a hand over it as if to console its erratic pumping.
And so began the slow process of observing his surroundings in full. A wandering eye that stopped and hovered over anything and everything, such was the old man's interest. No one knows for how long he stood there, only that the sun changed its position in the sky several times and eventually night fell. With the darkness came a new kind of fear. The old man instinctively felt unsafe, as suddenly as when he first ventured outside. He wanted to make his presence hidden to anything that might be in the black that he couldn't see through. It just didn't feel right.
When a sharp and rasping sound echoed through his skull, a guttural and harsh clawing piercing his ears, the old man scrambled from his spot with unusual athleticism for one of his age, and scurried back to his haven, an illuminated island of light that none others than he could get to.
From that day on, the little old man left his safe cottage , it's serenity and calmness always waiting for him when the darkness fell.
He explored.
Further and further from his cottage door each time, but always in sight of his door to heaven.
Flowers.
Plants of considerable beauty, they can be given as a gift to people you care for, or they can be gazed at in a wild meadow for all to enjoy. They provide for other small organisms and they brighten up everything near them. The old man didn't have much experience with flowers, other than staring at them intently for hours on end. He knew not what they did, nor what others did for them. He only knew that they shone and sparkled. They had the same aura that he remembered seeing many years ago when he first encountered a butterfly.
It was a bright sunny day when he first encountered the white lily. It had a sweet fragrance of pearly freshness, it's leaves curling back on itself in an obscure and almost coy pattern. It was a memorable first meeting, although perhaps a rather prolonged one. The old man visited the white lily day after day, never getting tired of it. The sweet scent and the shameless display of extravagance drew him in closer and closer. It was alluring. Sensitive and shy but yet exuding confidence and majesty. The old man had grown accustomed to nature over time, but this was by far the prettiest thing he had ever set his eyes on.
He gazed at it for so long that one day he didn't realise that night had already fallen.
He spoke his first words to the flower; words that had been on the tip of his tongue ever since he discovered her there.
He said, " I love you " .
They spent more time together and days gradually turned into a hazy week, followed by another.
It was by chance that he saw the surrounding greenery curling up the lily like a trickle of smoke. The man who was infatuated by the flowers beauty, only had pleasant thoughts about it, and assumed that everything else would feel the same. After all, why would there be anything but love shown for this flower who sparkled so brightly, enhancing the effect of its surroundings. It was a masterpiece. The finishing touch to a painting that made it complete. No, it was the centrepiece, everything building around it to hail it's form and splendour.
The greenery wrapping itself lovingly around the white lily was less beautiful. It was spiky and jagged and harsh. It wasn't a spectacular plant. It wasn't pretty. But in contrast to her- it made the white lily look greater while it supported it from underneath its shadow. The old man saw no problem, nothing spoiling the perfect picture. Not even when the jagged plant grew out edges that dug into her stems and let sap flow from the gashes.
He didn't pay heed to the white lily's underling, he was more focused on the centre. He knew not what was happening, and he knew not about violence and deceit.
Almost two and a half weeks since meeting her, he noticed a change. The white lily; a spectacle he admired and loved, was starting to weep. She drooped slowly, her perfect composure slipping as she was choked bit by bit. The strangling hold was too strong for her to shoulder off. The white lily was being choked and starved of her development, her final bloom nearing and then cut short.
When the old man saw the state of his beloved lily he became frantic with worry. Unsure of why, he sat there next to her and whispered.
He whispered, " Please be yourself again ".
2 days passed, and he forgot about the night. Without eyes he could not see the lily, just the pearl inside of her failing structure. He could not revel in her beauty, and that led him to dark paths. His mind in turmoil once more, just as it had been those years ago.
Without the shining radiance he could think in a way he had not before.
It was mournful. His thoughts gloomy and unclear.
Not until the fifth day of the third week did he look underneath her wilting bloom. And what he saw filled him with horror and disgust. He experienced anger, a burning white sensation that left him faint and dizzy. It's not certain wether or not he comprehended what was happening exactly, but the result was clear, and the little old man, frail and weak after many countless seasons of life, shook his trembling fist at the weed burrowing under her bloom and corrupting her beauty and innocence.
When he returned the next day, he brought a small knife, and carefully teased the weed away from the white lily. Afterwards he hacked and slashed. The weed left in a mutilated pile at his doddering feet.
He then spoke to the white lily once more.
He said, " perhaps you will bloom even better now. More beautiful. More radiant. More hopeful."
And with that he bowed to her, and took his leave.
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