There was once a woman whose heart ebbed and waned with the goodness and sorrow of the world. All was well, while the balance remained. But when the world bent in favor of sorrow for too long, the woman felt her heart break. She fell upon her back and watched the spinning of time with all the numbness of her broken heart, where she could not weep or wail, keen or care, for her heart no longer worked. And she was alone. And there was once a man whose heart tipped and righted with the goodness and sorrow of the world. He remained steady, content to feel as events came and went. Until the world tipped into sorrow and he could not bear the length of it for the breaking of his heart. He sank into a chair, his head shaking in his hands, his body unable to feel the prick of needle nor the edge of a knife, for his heart had shattered. And he was alone. Too, there was once a child whose heart rose and fell to a tune of its own, untouched by the goodness and the sorrow of the world. She
Once there was a leaf that fell from a tall tree and landed on a paved road with a crinkle. With the crinkle came a crack, which split a seam right through the leaf's tenderest section. The leaf groaned, horrified at its unsightly blemish. But then a child came and squealed with delight as she picked up the leaf and peered through the crack into the other side of the world. And the leaf suddenly felt like there was nothing wrong with being broken.
There was once a time when every flower that covered the earth died. The grasses and the trees, the shrubs and the weeds lived on, but the blooms ceased. Some time passed before the cessation of florescence grew so significant as to achieve awareness by the general public. After the shock and awe began to fade, the world grew angry. How dare the flowers stop! Didn't they know the ugliness they've caused? They should think of the travesty, the nasty, dusty byways with nothing to brighten the eye, the dirty gardens with their torpid shoots, the blandness of it all... How dare they wallow in so selfish a fashion! Thus were the cries of the beings of the world. And the more they cried, the more the earth refused to blossom. But it was a little girl who sat by a flowerless shrub, and held it's leaves between her hands, and asked the question: why. Then the earth told her. About the sorrow, the brokenness, and, finally, the mourning. For the world had become