As if she could no longer bear the weight of her own symbolism, as if she was shaken by the tremors of a future she wanted no part in, a melancholic despair took hold. At the very depths of her being, her roots tangled, mirroring the twisted torment of fleeting possibility, unspoken truths and whispered regret. When had passion given way to profit? When had empathy crumbled at the hands of indifference? Days bled into nights, perpetual twilight making it impossible for anyone to keep track of time. Except. As the vibrant hues of her petals faded, Middlemist could hold on no longer. To the rhythm of the heartbeat of a dying planet, one small petal fell to the ground each day. Wilted under the crushing burden of nature's last hope.
People came and people went. Sorrowful spectators bearing silent witness to this elegy of decay, the dying spark of creation.
In sombre realisation of their own mortal fragility, some held hands, mustering up a sense of some collective spirit, even in the face of abject isolation.
When Middlemist had surrendered all her petals, once kissed by sunlight, now lying in rest, they were blown by the wind in a delicate dance. A dance of impermanence and the inevitability of surrender.
YOU ARE READING
Middlemist
Storie breviThe last flower. The last hope. As the exhausted planet's heartbeat slows and the sun sets for the last time, a small crowd gathers to say goodbye.
