The Dreams of an Outback Flower (story + poem)

I can feel myself getting sunburnt. Yes, the sun’s forceful embrace is peeking up from behind me, warming my back but also browning my edges. I did not choose to live here. I let myself breathe. I don’t have anywhere to go, or any way to get there.

Besides, I think to myself, I should be more grateful. It can’t be much better than this.

The sun is higher now, so my neighbours alert the world of their excitement. I have no such privilege, and of course they boast with their great colourful arms and chiming songs that they are free. I remain trapped, while I listen to the heavy flow of water just outside my line of vision.

But their gentle whistles of “good morning” encourage me to stand up straighter.

It has been a long night, the dusty expanse of the Milky Way slightly covered last night by distantly humble clouds.

A storm, the guardians had said.

A time of rest, the birds had whispered.

The storm, or any chance of it, has since faded into memory, the sun’s punishment for such eagerness. I believe the birds are disappointed at that, since it means our flowers will remain plain and the earth thick and tough.

No chance of a new sproutling, the whistlers complained across the canyon.

I realise, through the gaps of my vision, there is a newcomer, whose wandering footsteps question their whereabouts. Do they

Know who they are? Their wishes sent to the sun

Appear more hesitant than my own. Has their journey been memorable? How could I hope to

Relieve their tense

Anticipation for silence?

Forgetting what they know, that must be the hardest part. Being able to accept a

Life without endless items at their fingertips, exempt from the

Internet’s hardened, unfeeling touch. Finding comfort among the raising walls of the rocky cliffs, knowing from deep within that to find peace here is the ultimate goal.

Now though, once the sound of burning carbon and great mean sky cars rushed to add adrenaline into their bloodstreams, the highs fell back to rock bottom. It could remind them of their great

Desires, dreams, destiny. The things they connected with from being disconnected; the world knew what to expect of them and the whispers of the galahs’ promised peace made them see joy. Finally.

Each moment was exactly that, a moment, more memorable than what they deserved, with one another they learnt they were stronger, finding the thrill in survival, the importance of support and their unkindled love of

Racing through the unkept riverbeds among wallabies and Wedgies. Soon they could find themselves laughing with the cockatoos at sunset, saying goodbye to the online

Sadness they are somehow still so beautifully, unintentionally, attracted to.

Realising their downfall, respecting our finite universe surrounding the bubbles of yellow zip-up space they strangled and claimed makes me

Admire their strength and growth. Although they do not live for stories, we are all still made of them. There is power in the things we experience, nothing more powerful than the stories of the past that show how we got here is incredible. Incredible being something, something that makes the living worthy of ideas as much as they belong to

Nature. The notions within them that work like a clock’s countdown until point zero, the moment they’ve accepted that to have lived and

Grown inside the walls of this vast atmosphere is a privilege we must share loyally with the very beings that designed our Milky Way and the galaxies woven into our

Every breath. They, like us, give offerings of bare skin to the sun. And they, like us, are left

Sunburnt from the greedy star that plots to swallow us.

But still, some swift gasps of movement bring me away from my daydreams. I can feel my arms, long and wide, curling into themselves for protection. It’s defensive and yet counterproductive, since the underside is more sensitive. I begin to shudder from the overwhelming sunlight, and they die down and away from me. I am mad, then, at the carelessness the sun has for our offerings. My bright white petals are striped with love for the light we have.

And yet the world is pocketed with holes, and the sandy gravel where I stand is tough and tasteless, and the water I hear but cannot see smells of second-hand smoke and alcoholic singing. These are gifts we do not find blessed and are washed away briefly within the storms the great shining star tuts away from us. I let myself fold inwards, my ghost-green spine gently cracking from my focus. Beneath me, I feel the seed I was carried from and take a moment to wonder how far my neighbours would let me fly.