Losing the flowers

I can still see them: purple and green and yellow brushed across an open field, impasto strokes of natural color, framed by oak and maple trees. Near my home, in a state park, past well-trodden trails and paths, a field of wild flowers unfurls in the late spring and remains until the late summer. Until a week ago.

And I missed them.

Sometimes, I think silly, little secrets like this field are the only possessions I have in this world. Maybe that is why I don’t open up much to others. It feels like for each one I give away, I am losing one of the few things that give my life value and meaning.

More  than that, I like to be one of those secrets, to be a field of flowers. I like to be needed by others. But what the hell is that worth? To be needed? You become valuable for your usage and for nothing more. People don’t really care about you anymore, they just need the service you provide, but, as soon as that need is gone, you are forgotten.

Me? I’m a bandage. I heal people’s wounds, keep them from getting infected. Slap me on, and no problem, you’ll be healed soon enough.

But who heals a bandage? You simply tear them off and throw them away. Once they’re dirty and torn and lose their adhesive, they are nothing more than refuse. For once, just once, in my pathetic and lonely life I want someone to want me. To find some value in this filthy and shredded bandage, not for my usefulness but for who and what I am. Some semblance of intrinsic value. Heh. What stupidity for garbage to desire to be valued for what it is. It’s in the name. “Garbage”.

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