“What are emotions?” one questioned.
“It’s the plural term of emotion, I guess?” the other wondered.
“So.. what is emotion?” one questioned again.
“I don’t know,” the other wondered again.
“Ah, but it’s countable right? As in you can count them?” one asked.
“I don’t know.” The other stopped wondering.
The two lads conversed in commas and full stops, their silent demeanour unknown to the outside world. The world beyond, however, listened.
The day before they had to part ways, they sat again on the exact spot- where the statue of a weeping man rested. It was a legacy left behind by the ancestors of this town and the mayor had thought it was a brilliant idea to set it up in the east side of the town. The statue was a representation of demise for the prisoners and freedom for those who escaped. All in all, it meant the weak perished.
The following year, they decided to meet again.
Drip Drip Drip
The day arrived.
It was a blissful day as laughter filled the air. He was sharpening his axe on the west side of the town. His pair of boots were smudged in red as his mind drifted to the night before. He remembered the promise he made a year ago and was contemplating whether or not he should go. His hands were stained with blood and not a single ounce of water had come out. He was no longer afraid of being weak. So why should he go to the east? He was safe in the west and surrounded by people who, just like him, were no longer weak. And so, he decided not to come.
The following years he continued sharpening his axe.
Lost in thought, he realized his cheek was wet and his feet had landed him right in front of the statue of a weeping man. It was the same day he watched his friend die. The night darkened and the sky was pitched black and so he wept and wept, questioning for the last time.
On a faraway land, there lived a man.
He walked around the street with a rose in his hand.
It was a rose, one out of many but over the years, he tamed it into becoming the rose.
A single petal faintly fell to the ground, and another, another, another and then he loosened his grip on the rose.
The rose was barely surviving and it would have died in the wilderness except it was gently enclosed on the palm of the man’s hand.
It lived until the man’s life came to an end, but even then like a phoenix reborn from fire, it grew beside the man’s grave – standing and protecting him for over than a thousand years.