Heliocentric: a Fable

I am one of the beautiful people. I feel pretty. People admire me. People want to be by me. They want to be me. It's the nature of us beautiful people.

I am unique. There is no one else who looks like me. When I unfurl, everyone takes notice, but not with the most amicable fondness. They resent my beauty. They scorn my perfection. They spoil my happiness.

I was a late blossom, but when I did...just—Wow! Stunning. The focus of all in the room. I literally exploded with life and pageantry. Now, all else wither in contrast to me. All others seem barren trying to emulate my verdancy.

I look about me smugly and proud. Hubris isn't necessarily a bad thing. No! It’s self-actualization! It’s honesty. And most importantly, it’s clarity.

Hubris is self-maintenance. To most, it may sting as offensively glaring; but to me, it’s being bathed in light. Unlike the others, I seek clarity; I seek the light. There are those who don’t who create their own shadows that insidiously masquerade as shade.

I’m not fooled. Shade is an eclipse, a waning, and attrition. Shade means the end of the day.

I look about me. I deserve how I feel, surrounded by all the impotent predator weeds who feel overgrowth is mere ground cover—a disguise of their true intentions: they await their Schadenfreude.

They know, not, how to grow.

Am I wasting my time? Germinating for whom? For them? For those who compete with me wastefully for the life-giving waters? They can’t even taste it, let alone savor it.

I hear the droning sound. I see the bee appraising me. “Don’t even think about it,” I warn it. “Buzz off!”

Do you now see how those around me attract the vermin, the undesirables, the unwelcome? I pursue the light, the elucidations, the clarity. They are satisfied with mere homeostasis—metabolic equilibrium: a waste, and merely breaking even. There is so much life beyond just breaking even. In the contest between life and death, that’s only a tie.

I appraise all around me, in the shadows, with snark and disdain, because I see how I am surrounded by dirt.

“But you’re all in the same pot,” the worm chides me cruelly. “And we worms will compost all of you, eventually.”

“We’ll see!” is my rejoinder.

Knowing that the worms always win doesn’t come with the hubris.