Existence of the Weed

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I was staring intently at a weed. It was still young, with its slim roots clinging tightly to the ground and its tiny leaves swaying proudly to the subtle touch of the wind.

Then it hit me. It’s there living in a space surrounded by substantial life–fruit trees, daisies and some wild roses too. Oblivious to the fact that weeds are savagely plucked out or stepped upon.

So I thought, “What if this weed came into existence thinking it is needed like everything else that surrounds it?”

“What if it took notice of a white rose just beside it? Of its elegant beauty. Of its velvety petals as white and as pure as the pearl in the middle of the sea.  Of its thorny stem and its tiny leaves. Of how gracefully it stands out but still adds to the beautiful chaos of the woods.”

“What if in that mere moment, it became filled with hopes of becoming an elegant white rose?”

“What if in that mere moment, it longed to have the worth of a rose?”

“What if because of that mere moment, it decided to live its life trying its best to become a rose?”

“And then what if it finally matures and realizes that it will never bloom into a rose?”

What if I was the weed? What if I thought I could be a “rose” too? What if I’m wasting my time, patching the holes of my existence, pushing one foot after the other, climbing what seemed to be a never ending staircase only to find out that it’s all futile? What if I found out too late that this has all been a mirage? What if I can’t be what I want to be even if I’ve exhausted all efforts?

What now?

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