A ceaseless field, the home of many. Many tulips that don’t only bloom in spring time but are aglow always. A tulip field that’s a circus for the human eye, it holds the colors of syrupy cantaloupes, of cherries and of lemons without the bitterness. What passes by this field is the infamous wind. Though in this field it is not directed by its vigorous strength or its agility, rather what commands the soft breeze is a need of sacrifice. Its sole purpose is to give to the field. Comes from distant lands so its destructive force has vanished by the time it reaches the tulips and only drizzles the rain on top of them so they stay upright forever. Whenever it snows, the whole field turns white within seconds but those tulip bulbs can always manage to rise above. Even with the snow they keep growing and growing. You don’t realize how much they’ve grown over the years but if you visited the field as an outsider, you’d be baffled by their glory and their height, probably taller than the tallest of humans. But that’s because of the sun, the field’s sun belongs to no one but the tulips. If you stare at it for a long time, your vision won’t blur and your eyes won’t drain. You can stare at it as long as you wish and you’ll only get warmer. As all the tulips nourish, feeding from the sun and as all the tulips warm up… The sun is never too much for anyone. Not even for the mice that run through the field like wildfire yet can’t disrupt the solace of the tulips. The mice are a crucial part of the field, with the bees flying upon them. They run to wake the soil, they run again to wake the roots and the they run again so that with their taps and taps and teeny taps, the other inhabitants of the field will wake too. With a soothing rhythm ringing in their ears unlike a regular morning alarm whose aggravating tone clings onto you for hours. The inhabitants of the field wake with all the world’s happiness. Mind the fact that the field does not have citizens but people who consider the grounds of the field as their home, who consider the tulips their mission and who consider the mice and the bees their neighbors. The field has no owner and no conqueror but the tulips. And those tulips keep rising without any demand, so rises the inhabitants along with them and the cycle of water as it softly rains is never too late and the sun is never too far. Nature, without force and without orders cares for this field thus it grows and it grows and it grows until its immensity isn’t calculated by numbers or by reputation or by strength. It grows until the bulkiness is natural. And at the end of this endless field there’s a contrary piece standing hand in hand with the tulips. It’s smaller than the smallest mice inhabitant. A toothed wheel machine that someone unknown spun in an unknown time yet to this day it spins. It spins non-stop with no force applied, an untouched machine for years yet undoubtedly it still circulates, generating all the energy needed by the inhabitants. By the horses that come thumping through the mud and by the geckos who peek at the sun. You see this can stretch and shriek. It needs none but what’s already there. It has no end nor no beginning and it needs no door.
L.Y.
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