Matter Not

It was a bud at first, barely blossomed, yet its heart was beating. It had threaded its roots into a corner of my heart - a corner of a deep kind; dark, and barely there. There it sat, dormant, seemingly dead. It came to me in dreams perhaps once, twice, when least expected.

It wafted, sifted, settled upon particular cells that curled up and disintegrated, but never fled. For the bud could not, and could not ever, flee. So I swam, pleasantly, skipping, running, shouting through childhood as though it were of little sustenance to my already ageing mind. 

It was not sudden. That is our only misunderstanding, I believe. I do not jump at whim, I do not soar without patience, and, likewise, I do not fall with ease. 

I did not notice it at first, as the roots grew. It was slow, and gentle, and soft, much like the petals upon a rose in full bloom. It tiptoed its way along the surface of my heart, leaving tracks as easily as I would make footprints in the snow on a rare winter's morning. That corner was small, but gaining strength in the darkness - cultivating as though shy, or afraid. 

While I slept, it worked, busying away, journeying farther and farther to find only the purest of water, and only the finest of minerals. Patterns were weaved into the surface of my skin as the roots stretched outwards, saccharine in their attempt at sweetness. First, it was trickery. Only that, nothing more, and easily ignored. Trickery that came, and left, seeing nothing, conquering nothing. 

But trickery easily turns sour. The patterns became names, starting with the innocent. The scrawl was young and boyish and cared for nothing. Yet, still, I was unabashed.

I would watch the skies fall into darkness, straining my eyes to see through the fog of the night, and into the eyes of those who watch the human race: an insignificant band of fools. I did not care for books or bibles, for my skin was all I needed to know. My skin and my mind, blissfully unaware that the heart did anything other than beat: a mundane feat.

But when the morning light broke out amongst those clouds, the fog would not leave, but instead deepen, blinding – light bearing no arms against the storm of one’s heart.

And then I saw you. 

I did not realise it was you at the time; you were just another face, another mask to hide behind while I ascertained who was friend and who was foe. 

The roots turned green then, I think, a shade pleasant, but dull. They lacked energy, but momentum they had stored. The bud stood awkwardly, cowering, still, and silent, while the roots turned into stems. They ran in jets across my blood, stopping to build the beginnings of flowers while I laughed with you, talked with you. 

I kissed you once, I remember. Not on the mouth, for I hadn't the thought. But I kissed you, and you looked to the ground, the makings of a smile upon your face. And in that smile I saw the fog begin to clear just enough to let it be mist. 

It was then that the stems began, not to run, but to sprint. They made it a race, going far too fast for my heart to beat in time, for my mind to cope. They had turned my legs into pillars of salt and sand, my bones into dust. I was trembling. 

For so long, every muscle was a shiver, every nerve wracked. I was torn apart, stranded in pieces, unable to connect from one to the other, though I had not a reason why. Though that mist was no longer filled with the pollution that the voices and cruel stares of millions of insignificant fools could induce, it was still far too thick, far too self-inflicted, to allow me anything more than a metre, though I was stranded at miles. 

It was with you that the dull shade of green burst into the colour of flames. It reached every single tip and every single breach was ignored. Throats constricted, stomachs turned, blood boiled, it mattered not. All mountains were moved and all laws withdrawn. I was set alight.

That bud became a pulse, as though it was a heart of its very own, trapped inside another. The flowers blossomed outwards, pushing against my skin, their colour a burst of every drunken shade; their scent of every strengthened fume; and their song of every thunderous dance.

With a tremendous tumult of noise and trivialities, the bud erupted, flourishing its proud wealth. It overcast the doubts and shadows that lurked within its corner, instead focussing on the vitality that such a being could bring. Though shadows have a tendency to creep.

I could not understand then why colour so bright could bring such a haze of darkness – its texture like charcoal. I could not ascertain why you, in all your bitter resentment, were correct in your unwilling thoughts from the very start. You sang a lament while I hummed a tune so jolly, but my back was turned to the trees that bore no leaves. The snow did not fall, but drifted, hesitantly, unwilling to hit the ground. The cold rattled the windows of each and every house, whistling not for it hadn’t the strength.

This, I must confess, is written all in the tired hand of hindsight.

Years after our meeting, for I resent to tell you that it was in fact years, the bud withered, exhausted, and crumpled, its colour fading to reveal the weathered brown that had lain underneath. It curled into itself, causing more pain than it was worth, before failing altogether.

But this is not a story of ruin.

Though I may have watched as the coats on the leaves turned brown and fell from their pegs, I also watched, after yet another dreaded winter, the rebirth of lushness, of purity, and of effervescent beauty. I watched as the sunlight broke through the shield of the earth and finally soaked the people’s skin with warmth. I watched as planes set sail across the sky, taking with them those who dared to work so hard throughout the year, as time faded, and as children laughed. I watched as you became no more than a memory, a shake of the head, and a laugh in a conversation between teasing friends.

I felt it within myself, too, the spring that had taken so long to arrive. The bud was not dead, but resting, waiting, before it may blossom once more. And that bud did finally blossom, gently, slowly, lovingly - and this time it did not carry with it illusion or sleight of hand.

This time I hummed a tune and my heart hummed back in a tone jollier than my voice could manage. My mind and heart had no disagreement, for there was nothing upon which to disagree. The simplicity of it all astounded me. I did not have to think, did not have to force myself to feel, did not have to write, and explain my thoughts simply to avoid conflict. I did not have to clarify each and every action, did not have to apologise, did not have to worry about the bud taking flight because it was already soaring – without patience - high up in the atmosphere, looking down upon a comfortable scene and smiling.

The idle sun did not blind, but enlightened, the alacritous breeze did not annoy, but refreshed, and the feel of skin on skin did not burn, but soothed. The smiling bud stood tall and did not shy away from that of which it could not control. Its corner, its path, all of its stems and roots and its sap of liquid equanimity became illuminated, unfolding into a flower of such beauty, of such tranquillity, and of such purity that I could not believe the fear it had harboured. That mist had fled, though it was no longer afraid of light. It simply moved aside, passing with nothing but a smile.

I did not feel the complications that were always so ever-present with you. In truth, all my body ever felt was connection – one of trust, a capability to accept and never deny, and a strength that was created purely out of kinship, and not out of doubt or fear or fire.

The flower was not pink, so luminous that it blinded everything in its sights, screaming 'we're here' just to stop from being picked off and torn apart. It was not blue, so high upon its pedestal, deciding laws that they had not a part in. It was not a wavering shade of purple, never at the middle line, and never sure of which side it ought to place itself upon. 

 It was white, and this time so much clearer. It was pure, and simple, and demanded not attention, nor alliance. It just was. And with that, I realised how ridiculous and inefficient my body had been for all those years. 

 And it mattered not what the stars thought. It mattered not what the people thought. It mattered not what you, and all those like you, had thought about me. It mattered not for all that mattered was a single voice in the back of my head, one of a gentle caress, that told me, in words plain and decisive: ‘this is where you are, and this is where you’re meant to be.’