She is a dandelion seed drifting across the midsummer sky. During the days of when each tree branch sways easy. One of whose time finally ripens from the subtle release influenced by the permission of the morning warmth and a little convincing push of the wind.
She then paddles against the invisible waves through the horizons. She travels the world for the first time. And she is perfectly happy. The breeze then picks up the pace, teaching her to dance without using any legs. The castaway leaves from the neighboring trees waltz with her, they take turns doing patterned and synchronized motions as if they have done dancing together before. They are her Romeo, wooing her to glide with them throughout the ball.
The little dandelion seed was putting on a show, impressing the entire vegetation from below, across the rice fields they were her audience. They waved in approval or was it an attempt to emulate the motions, if only they could also fly, they thought to themselves, but in a way, they actually did somehow.
And from the open household windows, send a soothing familiar invitation to stay for a while. To spend a little more time at home, on a Saturday morning, to have an early lunch perhaps, with iced lemonade and daisies as center-piece in the family table.
The weather was on her side, she was grateful for her captain. The breeze has taken her far already, and through this ascend, she was introduced to the varying views and feelings, letting her see the world from another perspective. And from each climb and height, the world boasted its grandeur and its seemingly unending beauty. The horizons claimed eternity, imploring her to dream some more.
But she was just a mere seed she thought, how could the world care so much she asked? But there were no words found between the question and the utter silence, only episodes of continuity and the line in the horizon that separated the wanderer from the dreamer. She started to funnel the grace that went through her. And she hoped not to disappoint.
She soon realized that life is not stagnant, but it is change. It is the unfolding of a flower after the long cold night. Life is carefree and whimsical, yet it is forgiving and patient, daring yet respectful, adamant and stern but at the same time gentle.
The day was on her side, it did not rush her. And when the sun was too hot, the clouds connived to carefully place shade over her fragile body.
Then something changed. The once strong wind is now feeble as it tires. She slowly descends, as if the cold earth expects her arrival. She prays for mercy to let this invisible force beneath her linger. But she will not be answered.
The dandelion seed as she was known to be is no more. But instead, she is life realized. She learns as soon as she had hit the ground, that the very fall was not her demise, but rather the start of her real life. That she had to take the journey, to let the circumstances dictate her place in the world.
After all, we are the jigsaw that fall into place, to complete the puzzle of our existence. On our own, we are nothing but little pieces that make no sense.
And as the day was coming to a close, she dwelled very still, lying on the ground beneath the stars. She had promised herself to be fair to the moon that rested in the cradle of the evening breath that lingered as clouds. That she would throw the same kind of smile she gave the caring sun.
And she is perfect.