I wonder how its like for you; I truly do. Your butterfly soul seems trapped in a cocoon. It can't fly away now. What have you done to yourself, love?
Sleepless nice agonize some of us; I hope they haven't inflicted you too. Once you told me your deep sleep couldn't be touched by anyone, much less a dream. I am having dreams of you. You don't look as happy as you once did, mate.
But I still see the fields filled with flowers for you. I know I could never fall in love with them. Nothing temporary can capture my heart and this is one of the gifts I've been blessed with but you can, I assume. I see a rose, a lily and a daisy blooming right beside each other. They look beautiful, touching your feet as you stand in that field, staring at them with tears of confusion in your eyes. They are rather beautiful, aren't they?
Everything you ever dreamed them to be? Then why is it that you are still crying and stroking their petals like a child whose mother was angry at it, and it ran out into the garden to stroke the kitten, seeking comfort from it instead of her?
And, look! The field is broad, beautiful, and the sun shines only slightly. The weather there is always beautiful. Never too hot, never too cold. So why are you crying?
I see.
The petals have holes in them. The insects have eaten their way through. They are beautiful too. Can't you fall in love with the broken? Isn't that a natural thing to most human beings?
Unless you had a pot of gold and exchanged it for a bucket of copper. It's alright though. I think copper is more beautiful than gold as well - easier to find. So you shouldn't cry.
Perhaps you are wondering of my whereabouts. I'm doing the same thing every day. Some things have changed here and there. I am not in the field as you are now, though. I'm in the skies, sitting in my usual place...observing.
Remember, when I said it was what I did best? I don't belong with the other flowers. They don't really like me.
They say I'm disgusting and that no one can see me. I think it is because I don't flash my beauty like they do, because I'm this bud that never blooms.
I agree with them though; no one can see me. I don't agree with them; I'm not disgusting. I just can't stand the cacophony of wild colors buzzing in my mind. That is why I'm that bud in the tree and not a tulip on the ground. At least I don't have holes within me.
But you shouldn't worry. You won't ever have to look up to see me in the tree where I have been blessed to observe the field of beauty - seeming beauty. I don't belong there and you got tired of sitting in the tree, waiting for me to bloom.
But you shouldn't have to worry. I'll still be in the same place, never blooming, never speaking. I don't do those sorts of things.
Perhaps one day the story of the late bloomer will be the one you'll remember most.
Perhaps. Only perhaps. Nothing is certain nowadays, am I not right?