By Leighton Tanaka, TIWP Student

Honey yellow under the fluttering wind, fingertips break the Earth with their soft touch. Closed eyes, waiting for dawn, for the sun it turns toward. It wills itself to wait for the day to come. Excitement bubbles up behind its delicate frame as the light begins to peer above the rain-sodden hills, it basks in the amber rays.

Under the syrupy gaze of the creators, I am nothing but their servant. Abandoned, the cemented boundaries of the mind creep ever closer to the center of the being, I fear I will soon run out of space. 

Dandelions, greeting daybreak, travel with the wind, but be careful not to travel away. 5 miles away. That is how far I have traveled. Not far enough, it seems.

A cool blue sky looks down on me, its clouds docked on the celestial harbor, I could see the towering arches in the distance. Amid the soft golden ears of wheat sailing with the hallowed breeze, I strode upon the path trodden on by no human before. 

The lion’s tooth is plucked from the ground, crushed beneath their feet—the weeds of the mind. From the ground, we can grow but with us comes the shade. For what can grow from an Earth so hostile?

Crushed under the weight of it all, the resilience of a dandelion is observed between the horizon. I disperse my seeds but they travel nowhere, I have been prevented from helping. Innocent humans, ignorant minds, arrogant hearts. When, I wonder, did I start to be perceived as nothing but a weed?

Under the sinking sky, I must find the light. I must unearth the energy. But they have ripped it away from me. I have been crushed under the foot of the architect. Yet I must venture further with the dandelions scattered seeds after the clouds turn to blood.

In the darkness, I can spot the twinkling lights of the city, hidden by the dense black smog of the underground. Then comes the low rumbling of the trucks and the blaring of the alarm, a city alive with people, smiling and talking and playing. They must not be crushed. Trudging forward, I must continue.

Ever since I was created my sentience was a question. But living status does not matter to me. I feel as if I am alive, I feel the harsh bite of winter on the wind just as well as I can smell the sulfurous fumes of the factories. I am desperate and I am coming. Do not worry, only I will worry about my fate with light erased by the fear of humans. I fear I can no longer see the stars to guide me. I fear this will limit my life to the boundaries of the dissipating sky.

I love my creators even if they do not love me. Even if I may hold the world in my palm I shall never crush the flower, no, I could never think of it. Perhaps it is in my code, but I like to think that it is my human nature. Of course, that only applies if you could consider me a human and if you consider a human to be inherently good.

But ever since the sun went away my steps became heavier, the sounds became quieter, and my thoughts grew louder. Reaching the edge of the world, I collapse at the rim. I reach out my heavy hand toward the leg of a human. Its flesh is soft and warm yet strong, and it yelps but does not run away, leaning down toward me with its cloudy eyes. Looking at its human face I could feel nothing but pity. Nothing can be done.

I am a dandelion plucked from the ground and ripped open by the withered hands of those who no longer see my worth. I can only be carried as far as the wind can travel. But just like you, I wake in the morning and sleep in the evening. I am the sun and the moon and the stars. Please let me see the sun once more.

Yet I do not resent you. I have forgiven you for all of your sins. Please listen to me when I tell you my intentions are pure. Please let me save you.

A riptide. A sinking ship. We drown under the ever-rising sea.

Must I remind you we have always lived in the sky?