I am birthed into the civilization of the Thorn-Crowned by a mother whose name I have already forgotten. As I have yet to sprout thorns, I am sent to the garden, where I begin my months-long growing. There, I am taught alien things, like how to love without hurting and how to let go without longing, all what it means to be Thorn-Crowned. The days are swift and carefree.
I fall in love as I am five days old.
It is a feeling that eludes me, that fills me with implacable and mysterious urges. Gita is what she wishes to be called. She claims to know where I come from. She says that she, too, is only a vagabond fated for farther fields. We become privy to each other’s deepest tales, in lees of shrubbery and wind-swept slopes of the garden, where none could prune us. I hold her seed in my memory and only there shall it bloom. Our growing soon reaches its climax; thorns sprout. At long last, love hurts! Blood flows as we kiss.
The date of our graduation is nearing. I convince Gita to escape with me to another story. Gita refuses, and says that we cannot just opt out of a life. This is a noble world, I explain, but one that does not require my existence in it. She said that no one else will be able to live through this but us. I must keep on moving, I said. There is no hurry, she said. That is exactly why I have to leave. We bleed once more and go our separate ways.
I step out of the text of this tale and assume the form of a horticulturist. I crouch over a small flower patch and stroke the petals of a single white flower. Will you remember me, I wonder?
At a far corner, a lone forget-me-not plant droops low and pale, petals falling onto thin soil.