Treaty of Peace and Sunflowers

I thought that we are our own life’s protagonists. It feels logically sensible, but it’s not I suppose. I remember that bookstore visit. It felt, for some reason, like a sunflower field catch-up-in-the-air picnic, except it was less bright and more vivid. How far am I willing to go? I guarantee nothing but the world.

That dead poet wanted his epitaph to speak wisdom, it did not make sense for the rest of those wearing black that sorrow and the less ability to comprehend took over their minds. I did not interrupt. Still, I was curious. It said happily despite the melancholy that filled the scene, “Tram ahead. Heels down. Heads up. World beyond.”

I guess that along the journey of preparing for your epitaph and finally deciding one, we face protagonists, even for our story. It feels absurd that you are not always winning the credits, but in your story, you are not always the only hero-man, are you? Are any of you?

The night was silent. The human lives were up, but the stars made them vanish away. I could only see the sunflowers. They do shine in the bright, and they never lose their definition.

For the first time, I enjoyed the bookstore. Imagine a bookstore without books and only sunflowers everywhere. Is a bookstore a bookstore without books? I leave it here, but I guess my conquering dreams will never leave it that way. I will sit by some desk, hold the ink and describe this sunflower field visit.