A crushed flower

Just a while ago, I was walking behind a little girl who had in her hand in a little pink flower. It had fallen off from of those broad trees that line the pathways. Then just as I was about to pass her, she dropped the little pink flower. And I went ahead to step on it, despite being able to avoid it. I did it quite intentionally; and the little girl must have known that for she looked up at me with an infantile hurt in her eyes. And no sooner did the tears begin to well up. But I simply continued walking. You see, I was deliberately being a bad person. I was sick of being a good person – I’ve been a good person all my life and it’s beginning to get boring. I wanted to break the rules, to hurt and offend, to be obnoxious and malicious, just to see what could happen. And the poor little girl, the first of my victims, must have stood there weeping and wondering how the world could have such bad people. She must perhaps have remembered her parents always telling her about these bad people and how she ought never to let herself be defeated by their horrid actions, their vapid carelessness. They are the ones who roam the earth without a purpose and without a soul, and because theirs is an hollow vessel, they pleasure in indifferent destruction. Of course, none of that ever happened. I merely weaved the tale up; of what could have been. I am too afraid to be a bad person.

Of the flower

What if this flower danced before me as it does in front of everyone else, and it is only my wishful self that sees it as something specially for me, given to no one else; like an endearing gaze or mark of affection? I know this to be a trap. The heart has a way of warping things into how it wishes them to be. But ah, how enchanting, persuasive, convincing, is its dance!