Once upon a time, a narcissus bloomed unnaturally in the carnation fields. With its petals opened, it pretended to be a perfect rose, yet it could never achieve the greatness that it believed it deserved. Maybe it was just ordinary after all, an object both odd and invisible, a weed no one remembered or cared enough to observe and scrutinize. Its leaves became uninteresting, its colors cold and lonely, its stem skinny and scarred with teeth marks. Maybe it was better left this way, untouched, unhurt, unseen. Desolate, weak, inhuman, it shrank, closing itself to everyone around it, and wilted against the sunlight. Slowly, its petals dried and crumbled, and it fell silently, painlessly into the ground as if nothing happened, nothing at all.

Life moves on, and I have never regretted walking life as a narcissus. It wasn’t the most joyful path, it wasn’t the most exciting path, but it was an honest path. It made me vulnerable again. I don’t say this often, but I wish others wouldn’t misunderstand me so often. You see, people think I am arrogant and judgmental, just because I act intelligent and cocky from time to time. I never judge, and I wish others could understand that. But they don’t, and that’s fine, too. I don’t say “This is the best” or “This is the worst,” and I don’t say “You suck” or “You’re dumb,” at least not seriously. I’ve always admired people for their talents and strengths, but I admire people more for admitting their faults. It makes me feel a bit less lonely, a bit better about myself, that my life really isn’t so bad, you know?

Sometimes at night when I’m alone, I would think that maybe if I made myself more normal and relatable, then people would like me more. But I knew that would never happen. I had too many burdens and pains to carry, and my job would never be accomplished, no matter how badly I wanted it to be. So I wore a mask and tried to distance myself into a place of comfort and satisfaction. Yet, no matter how hard I try, people could always see through my facade, and I would have to create lies to protect myself from their hurt. Maybe this makes me hollow and invisible, like everyone else in the world, or it might be just me, but I doubt it. I’m never wrong, but I’m not perfect, and I’m always wrong.

I don’t know why I was gifted with the ability to write beautifully, without any resembling inspiration or artistic vision. My words were always just there, never a contrast of black and white, but a shade of blue mixed with tears. As a child, I have never travelled the world, and I have never liked danger, and I have never had parties or celebrations or gifts. I have never accomplished anything noteworthy, or liked anything that other people liked, or indulged myself with junk food and snacks. Always overshadowing the happiness I never really knew, I wrote about loss and wants and wishes, hoping it would keep me in touch with my idiocy and innocence. And I believed a falsehood more numbing than the edgings on my skin.

But somewhere along the red line, I grew too smart for my own good. Brainwaves conquered the beating of my lonely heart and I began to lose my identity as a writer. My writing became less genuine, my words became less blue, and I became a caricature of my intellectual self, if only to comfort others’ eyes and ears. I tried to be someone different, someone better and more popular, and I became a fool in the process. And I drank and sexed until my words lost the magic that made me somewhat relatable to the people I once loved. Sure, my words are still awkward, and I still forgerize sentences that follow no logical sense, but my tearful whims taint with the stupidity of my blood and snot. I need help, yet no one helped me, and so I forced myself to stop writing, becoming invisible not only to the people around me, but to myself.

When I regained conscience and became sober, I realized that I wasn’t meant for the rich life, the fame, the complexity that has now consumed my life. I tried changing back to the way I used to be, but I realized I wasn’t young anymore. I can’t run away from my problems without getting caught, but I grew too afraid to confront them. As a result, I grew tired of writing, and I just wrote to please others, to hide my own insecurities. Writing was my one joy and escape from frustration, the thing no one could touch with their hate. Yet time took it away from me, but whatever. I can deal, right? All I can do now is to wait for tomorrow, find a new happiness I could never really understand or explain. And I have to keep pretending that some purpose exists, even when I get sick of life, its plot twists and repetitive randomness, its nuanced laziness, and its simple complexities. It’s what I do, after all.

But the fire in my morning wood still burned, even if it wasn’t as noticeable as before. I still wanted to write, even though I had nothing left to say anymore. I still wanted to write, not for some purpose like before, but only for my own enjoyment and nostalgic indulgences. Why does writing have to be poignant and serious all the time? Why does writing have to be about substance all the time? I just want to write, even if my lyrics don’t make sense, even if I don’t understand myself anymore, so that I could remember what it was like to write about things that mattered to me, when I had nowhere to call a home, when all I had for friends were stuffed rabbits and orange clothes. I don’t have a sob story anymore, but if I keep writing, maybe something will inspire me to be my quirky, abnormal self again. If not, my soul will die trying, and I’ll just move on living life as a marionette with an outline for a painted heart that never was.

So, yeah, this was why I wrote this piece of junk. Happy? I didn’t write for some political agenda or some powerful insight on life, but because I wanted to love writing again, even if it could never be as beautiful as before. Had I been younger, this story could have a quiet masterpiece, or at least something you could have understood. Had I been younger, you would have experienced Fruit and Condom’s honeymoon, and you would have enjoyed our pointless conversations and adventures with Mr. Orange, Mother Goose, Smurf, The Calculator, and maybe the King of Hearts if he wasn’t too busy killing his many wives. But it didn’t turn out that way, did it? I’m not myself anymore. I’m outdated now, a has-been who never really was, and I don’t have a reason to live anymore.

And so I die along with the narcissus.