Under the Root System, Everything Is Nameless

In the palace garden, the roses firmly believe in an iron law: only if they are cut and inserted into the queen's crystal vase, their life will not be considered wasted. For this reason, they overdraw the flowers, break off the side branches, and curl up the roots in the shallow fertile soil, just to cater to the gardener's scrutiny. Until the nameless wild flower in the corner popped up. It is grey-blue and thin, its petals are wrinkled like old crumpled paper, but its roots are digging into the cracks of the rock. On rainy days, it folds its leaves into umbrellas to protect the wet ladybugs from the rain for half the night; it secretly transfers the nutrients it saves to the broken rose seedlings next to it. The mute gardener knelt down for the first time and shed a tear for it. The rose that was chosen first was never heard from again. Until the heavy rain that almost overturned the garden, until the queen personally sent someone to take this wild flower into the palace. Unexpectedly, in front of all the roses, it wrapped its slender rhizome around the blade of the silver scissors and said that shocking refusal: "If I were a tribute, I would be the second prisoner to die in the vase." Later, those roses that had squeezed their heads to enter the palace were finally willing to lower their proud heads and pierce their roots deeper into the soil. That wild flower has long since withered, but its seeds are floating all over the valley along the wind - no one knows what it is called, and how it lives when the wind blows on it. This is not a cool counterattack story about an ugly duckling turning into a swan, but a rebellious epic about a wildflower overturning the entire value system. To all of you who are busy living like a "rose in the eyes of others" but have forgotten that you could have grown wildly: Being seen is never a value. The depth of your roots, the traces of your life, and yourself are the meaning.