He awoke to the soft sun’s rays blanketing his bare chest, the morning air refreshingly cool. Due to summer’s dreadful weather, sunrise was always the most peaceful, the brilliant heat kept at bay by the playful brush of languid wind.

Beside him lay a woman, her head neatly nestled into the crevice of his arm. Her hair fell in a mess, a curtain of gentle blonde in the sea of verdant grass beneath. A quiet rose, just barely as large as the ear it rested on, sat amongst the knotted locks. As her hand rested on his chest, fingers limp from slumber, he couldn’t help but feel his heart race from that giddy excitement, the one that’d gripped their frames the night before.

Brushing a hand to feel his green-stained trousers, he adjusted the things so that they covered him amptly. The piqued sun wouldn’t be forgiving for whom its interested rays touched. Careful not to wake the woman in his arms, the young man settled back into the grass, blades tickling at his neck as he rested in the divot he’d made the night before.

She was dirty, as was he, but he didn’t mind. In fact, it seemed only to testify in favor of how breathtaking their night had been. Each bit of clodden Earth had its own story of events, each scratch and stain their own lascivious – yet pure-hearted – memory.

Sitting in a field of jovial laughter and sleepless nights, the man felt his gaze drift as he crept closer to slumber. A group of flowers caught his attention: lilacs and orchids, yellows and purples intertwined to create a piece of art unlike any he’d seen before. As he gazed, smiling lazily, another gentle rustle of wind danced through the valley. The tall grass swayed in compliance, the flowers shuddering as their stalks kept them rooted to the Earth.

Life is a flower, he realized. Often, people root themselves too close to their aspirations of success and acceptance – yet, they never focus on the true meaning of breath, the grand worth of life. They may shake and complain with the wind, but never take the time to wonder why they’re rooted in the first place. Freedom is just as much an external factor as it is internal, after all.

The man’s eyes drifted back to the woman in his arms, that delicate rose still tucked into the thick of her hair. Uprooting a flower may be the sole action capable of combining the surreal beauty of nature with that of a Goddess; divinity is only attainable through sacrifice – an uprooting, it seems.

He stroked his hand against the small of her back, tracing his nails against her skin as he watched her shudder in sleepy delight. Today was not a day for ardor, nor one for stress. Instead, he let himself bask in the sun, enjoying the tranquility.

He closed his eyes. And smiled.