The Story Board: The Flower and the Sun

The flower and sun,
the song they never sung,
the story they begun.

Once upon a time, in a distant memory, there lived a little bud. Her life was filled with beautiful things, and her mind was filled with beautiful lyrics. But yet she was not full.

She spent her days blowing in the breeze, teasing grasshoppers through the shadows in the meadow. One day she noticed the sun peeping through the leave of the willow trees, she held out her hand and as the sun fell into her palm the little bud over flowed with light. The light slip-sloped over her brim, while she danced with the sun in the breeze.

From that night the sun could no longer sleep, he no longer longed for his dreams, instead he wished he could leave the night, and return to the meadow, under the willow tree, to find the bud, because never before had he met a bud who he could dance with all day with such effortless ease.

So the next day the sun hurried back to the moment, back with the breeze, and the bud rushed out from the shadows to play with the sun. and  they sung and they danced, and the skipped and the laughed and they held hand in grass, they played and played all day...
but at the end of the day, the sun faded away.
And the little bud shivered with cold, her leaves were damp and drooped from the weight of the pouring, spilt light from the sun. as the monotonous tide of the night tapped at her door, she began to feel a deep hollow pain... for the bud did not realize the real effects that the sun had...

For the bud was sheltered, she was not used to being out from the shadows, out in the open, and her skin was fair and pure, and unbeknownst to the sun or the flower, when a bud exposes its soul to the sun for too long without caution, it will be burnt, and when a bud opens it heart to be filled with light, if it is not careful, it will be drowned. And the buds heart was so heavy, so laden down with light, it hurt.
And oh how her soul burned,
it seared with such intensity, the pain was unbearable. And in that moment of pain, the flower grew angry at the sun for hurting her. And she wished she were no longer a bud, but rather a stone. Because a stone can not be burnt by the sun, and a stones heart can not be  filled with light. Light will never overflow out of a stone. And if light can not fill a stone,  then the stone can not be drained of light either, or can it become hollow, and emptied.

 For in the heart of a stone, lies a stone, and in that stone, lies a heart made of stone.

The next day the sun hurried back to his bud under the willow tree, he peeped and peered through the leaves, he flitted of floated across the scattered twigs... but alas, he could not find his bud. For she was hiding in the shadows,
 and shooting him with her silence.

For days and days he returned and spent all day spying through the leaves. Eventually over time, through snippet on the breeze and whispers in the seas, he heard how he has hurt the little bud. How his tantalizing sunrays had indirectly burnt her, scarred her purity. And he was sad. And he was mad. He hated himself, because he did  not know how to go  back in time. He was angry that he didn’t know how vulnerable a bud is when it is fully open out of the shadows, and how easily their petals can be torn away by the wind, and how delicate they are under their skin, so delicate and frail, so easily broken, so difficult to repair.  And he became bitter, for how was he to know that the bud was so fragile.
He was angry because she took his breath away, and never gave it back, and now he was living in a still world, with no breeze,
he no longer could gasp at the moon, sigh at the moon, or sing songs with happy melodies. Now is songs were sad, they were filled with broken lyrics and notes purposely off key. Sometime he needed to breathe so badly he would tear a little hole in his soul, just to feel a moment of a breath. A moment of escape. A moment of release. And sometimes he was so angry at his rays, that he would make them bleed. And he hoped the droplets would fall through the leaves into her hand, and then she would understand. And then she would see what she had done to him. But she didnt.
 Because she was facing the wall. Watching the moss grow.
 sometime she heard the drops, but she told her self it was just the rain, because she wasnt ready to turn away from the wall, and face the pain, to regain and reclaim her vunerability,she was scared to turn around and and find herself looking her reflection, and seeingshe was insane, or even worse, even more terrified  that she would see that she was sane. That the missing she felt was real and not a delusion, that love she tried forgot was real and not a distortion. And that the sun she wanted to forgive was real, and not an illusion. 

And the years past, and the seasons changed. And the swallows left and came back again.

 the sun still did not dream at night. And he was still wounded. And his drops still fell. And in the droplets, were reflections of solitude and broken beauty. And in the puddles was the essence of loniless,. And they still, Still distortion of light,. They highlighted and haunted and clothed the hills and the skies and the willow trees. Always just beyond the shadows. always just beyond the lens. always just out of reach from the hand.

And the bud found comfort in the moss. For he was gentle and kind. But over the years, she could not help but notice that the moss was flat, it was slow and the moss didn’t dance on her palm and she held this against the moss. In her secret dreams she wished the moss would burn her. Just a little. Just enough  just to convince her the pain she felt that day, was not unique to the sun. That the warmth from that day, was not exclusive to the sun. that the love she gained, was not owned by the sun. But alas, the moss could only kiss her forehead open to the door, and show her the path to a comfortable life.
So The bud walked out the door, and turned the other way.

she entered the world with a smile. And she spent her days strolling through the trees, watching the sky through puddles, standing on hills in the distance. capturing moments like the stillness of willow trees in the mist, or the moment the wind catches a cloud pulls it up in lust. And
the bud danced in the dusk and sang to the dawn.
She hung the images of the world in the hallway of her mind, and they filled her life with beautiful things, and they filled her mind with beautiful lyrics.   

but yet she was not full

And she thought that although she had lost the sun and least she had found her path. And she followed her path, capturing lost moments, and collecting trinkclets from the tide. she closed her eyes and let the wind guide her. On her path she unknowingly followed the droplets from the sun, and she unknowlingly slowly picked them up, and put them back together again. slowly unknowing they were guiding her back home again. 

the stillness of a willow tree in the mist