Flowers In Holes.

If souls were wisps of unnatural media, hers would have been made of an orb, magnetically coloured in peaches and blues, overflowing bits and pieces of her identity; the darkness and bliss combined.

Yet, at only fifteen, her soul was filled with holes that created this vast emptiness within her. Holes that were infinitesimal and unapparent, for she was able to laugh and give boundless love to those surrounding her. She was able to smile and find pleasure in the simple things she had recently discovered; her love for books, poetry and music. Among everyone else, she was the light and humour but all alone, she felt nothing but those holes and the emptiness they triggered, so helplessly she tried to consume it with destructive habits and feelings.

But those holes hid within them all the darkness, and you could never tell, as they swallowed the dark and shut out the light.

Months passed by, and she realised that with the things she loves most in life, she could plant seeds within those holes. She considered the possibility that from scars and wounds, comes courage, strength and persistence. Hastily, she recollected the beautiful things in her world and started to plant as many seeds as she could; some were viable and some not. As the days passed, the seeds started to germinate, and just the sight of the seedlings erupting from her soul dazed her. She danced her days away in rapture, forgetting her humanity and the realities she left behind, accumulating in her chest. She did not realise that growth required energy, observance and analysis, as some of those seeds burst to life. She dreamed of the blooming sunflowers and daisies, all sprouting within her and she couldn’t be more complete nor content with just the dreams and make-believes.

She forgot about herself and put so much effort in making sure all of her holes were full of seeds. Everyday, she would check them, ensuring they were all germinating and if not, a fear would develop, nagging at her, changing the smile on her face and twisting her breaths a little. However, she did not take this fear as an omen to slow things down and continued her obsessive care, till her soul’s holes were empty no longer but over-demanding.

She no longer knew the difference between the old holes and the new ones, that required varied attention.

A year later, the flowers bloomed; their stems slowly ascending up her airways, reaching out for her throat, exiting towards the light— the outside. The buds were sprouting out of her mouth; an exhibition of perfect beauty and grace. The petals were beautiful, dancing with the colours of sunlight, accompanying her presence wherever she went. She spoke of nothing but positivity, showed nothing but kindness, pouring pleasure and hope in the atmosphere and everyone felt it.

But— the way those stems pierced through her airways caused her pain, an intolerable and excruciating one. One that didn’t allow her to breathe at night, as those flowers tried to reach out for the inexistent light. She would choke and choke, gasping for air, crying out for help, but no one would listen. And this pain was intensively mixed with her fear of the flowers wilting and the holes emptying so she was lost in her garden, unable to cut her plants off. She did not want to see the barren land and the memories they portrayed. She lived with the pain; seeing people around her taking her for granted for the beauty she conveyed, not realising she was dying, wilting and fading away. She was losing more control with every day that passed by, every compliment she heard, that had no basis of truth.

The pain got too strong, so at a moment of rage, she cut the flowers off, one by one, tearing them apart at the roots. The rage was unquestionable, and she did so with tears in her eyes, memories of the beauty she once treasured flashing in her mind. She cried each night, as the emptiness returned, her holes prominent, further deeper and greater in number. She didn’t want to deal with it again, the sadness of her past, tormenting experiences and traumatic events that led to their formation. But she had no choice, there was no turning back. There was only way to go.

After months of malaise, she now regains some of her strength to start over, in a new and more mindful way. She loves the beauty of the flowers, but she wouldn’t like to lose control again. Hole by hole, she names them with things she loves most about life: love, hope, strength, patience and happiness— and plants seeds accordingly. She lets the light in day by day, watering her soul with kindness and balance, waits patiently for the seeds to germinate. And as they do, and the little seedlings start to grow, she makes sure they don’t fill her up and make her blind. Every time a stem reaches out a little bit too high, she hurriedly trims it, to prevent the pain of the lack of breaths. The flowers start to erupt, all varied and beautiful, all different and colourful, just to her eyes, as no one can see them. Every once in a while, she lets those she cherishes and appreciates take a look at some of the beauty; those who she trusts, understands and finds comfort with. Those who understand that beauty doesn’t have to be exposed or rise up to the surface in order to be acknowledged, as long as it is within.

She realises that she wants her soul to be a fertile ground that would one day belong to the heavens, to the ethereal, to the end. She will forever make sure the flowers are blooming in the spring, and will care for them in the other seasons of her identity. She will learn to accept all of the difficulties that come with responsibility, discipline, balance and mindfulness, but, this beauty will be hers, will be fixed by her own efforts, so she shall be complete only by God’s faith that pounds in her veins.

This is the story she wants to be told;

How she grew the flowers in her holes.