Iris

.


The iris will never look as lovely as when it knows that one is grieving.

When I have long given up on the fact that I might still find the one I've been looking for all this time, I somewhat knew that the irises were blooming lovingly at a very surprising rate, milking my grief for what it's worth. (It wasn't worth a lot).

The same happens to a tragic love story that happened way back in the post-medieval times, when a samurai, in his blinded rage to protect the one he has learned to love, unintentionally shot his sword through his lover's chest, killing her instantly.

It was a rain of blood, so much blood, they say.

And the irises had been the prettiest for the next seasons after that, which still left a lot of people marveling why.

The wounds that I keep inside are feeding the irises alive, more alive than I have ever been. And though I know that someone out there is happily wondering at such beauty of nature, I can't help but be selfish, thinking who would ever sacrifice his or her own happiness to make mine real.

We are all irises in our own right—we all should know that.

But first, I have to find a way that would make me believe that loving you from afar will already be enough, or the irises will continue to strive.


.