Petal

It was given, a flower, with a thousand petals, and if they fall off, the day ends, the night falls, then the whole world ends, and the chocolate melts without every being tasted. From then on, it becomes a struggle to keep not only hope alive, but the flower, which has been placed in the hearts of many, and it slowly withers away by acts of corruption and evil, by the acts of rage and revenge, but also in moments of cruelty, exploitation, and assassination.

It should be easy to avoid its poisonous thorns and keep its blooms alive, but it becomes apparent that dozens of hearts are unavoidably corrupted and inhumane, and so hundreds of petals die, and the taste of the world becomes thinner. It is then, the weight of the fate of the universe resides in less hearts, more dedicated, but more tearful and shamed, for if they fail, the ones who care the most, then, the blame exacerbates, and nobody is saved.

Some die along the way, some are sacrificed, some give up, some hold on together, some give it away willingly, some unwillingly, and some repeat mistakes again, but the petals, little by little, rip apart in a seemingly endless loop of human malaise. Is there really, the ones who carry them think, no one in this planet that can go a life without any humiliation, without any regret, without any pain, and hold onto it, and take it the petal, the greatest nurturer, to the other world and lay it there, so that all can be saved?

The petals wither away in a torrent of colors, red, and blue, and black, and yellow, the petals disappear in countless atrocities, both of the mind and the body, the lightest to the most excruciating, and the thousand dissolved along, always missing. And then there hundreds of them, scattered all over the planet, waiting and wishing for some semblance of warmth and cure.

Hundreds of petals, dead in silent, suddenly become dozens and in a blink of an existence, a generation of several tormentors, a lifetime of errors and passionate betrayals, an era of strangeness and uncertainty and loss and war, and an age of destruction and alienation, there are so few petals that most people have agreed, that if a heart is to stop at the wrong moment, if a die has been unfortunately timed, if a coincidence has been given the gift of irony, there it was the petal, and everyone would die at any moment.

There are ten at some point, then there are seven, six, four, three, and two, in two souls so different that it is almost impossible to get them together. A general dread comes over the entire population of the world, which has done very little to foment their development, but has wanted the fruits of the labor nonetheless. It comes to a moment, where one of them dies, and only one remains, that the truth is revealed, the birth of an idea has been given, in a terrifying moment of screams, agony, misery, and temptation, that the petals are always meant to fall, that the world is always meant to end, and that it is, in a given second, of total surrender, that one wonders whether it is a life wasted, living in torment and uncaring of others, or caring in moments, and losing nonetheless, where does it lead then, to the meaning of everything, a petal of a flower, and only a putrid stalk in the souls that are gone?