does a flower need to find itself?

Does a flower need to “find itself?” 

Does it sit in the soil, questioning its purpose, doubting its bloom, or wondering if it’s worthy of the sun?

Who told you what success is?
Who decided it’s working a job you despise to sustain a lifestyle you can’t afford, only to become a cog in a system that treats you as expendable?

If they said we can’t, who are they to decide?
If they said we should, why should we?

Who told you love is about finding one person and betraying every instinct to stay?
And who told you it’s not about having enough discipline to do so?

Why do we glorify ambition and drive as the highest virtues, as if a person’s worth is measured by their grind?
Why do we think so little of ourselves when we’re not enough by standards we didn’t even create?

Does a flower need to find itself?

Who the fuck told us we can’t just be? That we can’t simply exist in this raw, chaotic, devastatingly beautiful dream—or nightmare—we’ve stumbled into?

But whose dream is it?
And whose nightmare?
Who’s right—the optimist clinging to a thread of hope, or the nihilist drowning in the absence of it?

Why do we insist on forcing meaning onto everything?
Why do we treat confusion like failure instead of freedom?
Where did we get our truths, our definitions, our rules?

Why do I feel this gnawing need to rip apart what I’ve been taught?
Why can’t we admit we know nothing? That we’re all walking contradictions, wandering aimlessly but acting like we’ve got it all mapped out?

Who do we think we are?
And if we don’t know who we are, why do we act like we know where we’re going?

Who’s really in control?
Why is it always about control?
Why is it always about letting go?

Why is there an endless war inside us between the highs and the lows?
Why can’t we accept that the hole in us is the whole of us?

Why can’t we all live up to our fullest potential?

And why do we assume we’re not already doing that?

Does a flower need to find itself? 

I look at a flower and laugh.