The true beauty of this world is often found in its ephemerality.
One thing becomes another.
This new thing becomes another new thing.
Day turned into night. Then it became a new day.
-Enough of these shifts turn into a week, then a month, and so on.
The egg turned into a bird.
Birds turned into bones.
Bones become soil.
Soil becomes plants.
This goes on and on until finally it becomes a bird again.
Life is interesting, isn't it?
Birch and I had reached the end of the great desert. This was by far the largest, longest, and driest place we had to cross.
And, the shift in our location, from one side of the desert to the other, revealed some of the things that bothered me the most.
-Heaven is not here. It's even further.
A few days later we were wandering through surprising wetlands, which was what interested me the most. Crystals, like the caves we once walked through, line the landscape, poking out from thick, dark green foliage.
After a day out of the desert, the soil is dry.
Then, another day, it becomes more like what we are used to. I drank a lot that day.
Then, on the second day, it gets soggy.
The transformation continued, as on the second day, the soil became wetter.
Birch and I moved from the desert to the swamp.
Isn't this most unusual? Life is so interesting. You think you are here, but actually you are there. The sky might be sunny now, but an hour later, it might be raining.
We might be alive now, but an hour later, we might be dead.
Navigation in the swamp is difficult. There was only sparse solid land and water, pungent and green, that seemed unfriendly and welcoming to anyone who didn't belong to them. Many things with many small teeth lurk beneath the emerald coating floating on the surface of the water.
Oh my gosh, wasn’t I just a talkative sunflower today?
Maybe I also went from being a quiet, solitary person to being the loudest person who thrives in cohabitation?
This is certainly very unusual for sunflowers.
Birch bent down and looked.
In front of us is a frog.
Ribbit* croaks like a frog.
Very good.
Birch smiled.
When the frog transitions from the state of frog to the state of food, it doesn't.
Life goes round and round like this.
I used a ribbon to pay homage to the frog.
Just like sunflowers.
Birch played with her skin, pulling off bits of skin that had been burned by the sun's rays during the week we spent in the desert.
Now that she had found shade and water, her body began to peel in many places. It was as if she were a snake shedding its skin. Maybe it's the effect of eating the frog. What can I say?
I still don't know who my friend Birch is. I've had a lot of theories in the past. From she was a mushroom, to a fish, to a worm, to a butterfly, etc., until I finally guessed she was a monster.
-This is still the mainstream theory.
I realized that this series of assumptions was also a transition.
Birch winced and tore off a particularly large leaf and threw it over her shoulder, revealing a red, sun-kissed arm underneath.
There isn't much sunlight in the swamp. At least not under trees with lots of roots, half submerged in brackish water and half buried in sticky soil.
Birch looked at my face and saw me looking at a tree.
She raised her hand.
(mangrove tree)
Mangroves, which grow in brackish swampy areas between the inland and the ocean, are natural filters for salty water, turning it sweet. They thrive in high humidity environments.
Fascinating.
Even the trees here serve as a transitional element.
I didn't know the water could be so salty.
-Perhaps I was too harsh in my judgment of trees as a whole?
If they steal the sunshine and keep it for themselves, I think this is the most unforgivable. But if they can purify the water, nourish the soil, and allow me to drink water, then I guess all is well.
Thank you, tree.
Birch hissed, wincing, and peeled another chunk of flaky skin from himself.
I reconsider my snake theory.
I have come to realize that I, too, am in a state of transition.
-Maybe Birch too?
I couldn't help but notice that I felt more elevated than I had in a few weeks.
Over a long period of time, her body had become emaciated and frail.
Then it begins to fill with muscle and fat, a gift from nature, provided to her by my sugar, meat and fruits from her harvest.
Burch is thriving.
She has begun the transition to adulthood and what that means for her species. While she's not quite there physically yet, she's certainly there mentally compared to many of her kind we've seen.
We see a huge crystal, sticking out of the swamp. Above these waters, there are no trees to block the sunlight. So its surface is full of green algae.
But here, the sun shines on the blue crystal, which sticks out from the middle of the warm water.
From its reflected elegance, the sunlight refracts in all directions and spreads out over the water, creating a most beautiful sight. It's as if luminous creatures swim beneath its chaotic surface.
The disturbance in the water is caused by fish leaping from beneath the surface, out of the sunspots, and flopping back into the salty mire.
I can't tell why they do this.
But they seemed interested in jumping out of the water, but only where the sunspots were floating.
I would like to know.
Do fish also crave sunlight?
Is the answer that simple?
No.
I get it now.
They also try to reach heaven.
Why else would they jump towards the sun?
This makes sense to me.
For a fish, its life must be strange.
I fondly recall the memory of that big fish, watching the little fish jump out of the water again and again, trying their best to reach the sun.
Jump higher, little fish.
We will meet again in heaven.
I am convinced of this.
There is an old house in the swamp.
There was an old woman sitting in the old house.
On the old woman's lap sat a cat.
There was nothing on the cat, except perhaps some parasites, and I couldn't tell its age.
There is no reason to stop there. The house brings us nothing but misfortune.
We found Birch's book. But beyond that.
We looked at the old woman, and the old woman looked at us, and her cat.
I like cats.
They eat little mice, and the little mice chew my roots.
They eat small birds because they steal my most precious seeds.
Unfortunately, I have nothing to offer this cat.
After all, I am just a sunflower.
"A witch..." Birch muttered under his breath.
I don't know what this means.
Given her unusual skin color, it seems unlikely that this woman spoke the same dialect as Birch.
We kept our distance and kept walking, following the sun and heading west.
One day passed.
But a problem found us.
Birch and I stood at the water's edge, staring at the house on the water's edge, in which sat a woman and a cat.
I'm pretty sure we left here a day ago. Yet here we are again.
Ah, that's so troublesome.
Are we lost?
I can't say.
Birch grabbed her bag strap and shuffled nervously away, the woman's eyes on both of us.
We headed west as usual.
a new day.
Here we go again.
The swamp seems to want to keep us here forever.
Birch and I, hungry and missing the kiss of the loving sun, stared at the witch, and the witch stared at us.
-Maybe we should just eat her?
This is my suggestion.
Birch grabbed the straps of her backpack and hoisted me up while we tried to walk away again. My stubborn friend didn't seem to want to give up control of the situation.
We headed west as always.
Of course, here we are again on a new day.
The swamp holds us as long as the desert holds us.
I do.
I need sunshine. It's too humid here for me to survive.
Birch ate little except for a few frogs. She also craves material food.
But the witch stared at us, and we stared at her, bewildered.
My friend admitted defeat and fell to the ground, sitting on the muddy grass.
The woman sitting on the chair stood motionless in the water in front of the house. But the cat nodded, raised its paw, and pointed to our left instead of the right path we take every day.
Let's see.
Over there, in another direction that we had never looked at, tied to the shore was a small boat.
Ha ha.
A life lesson.
I am a sunflower.
