vilanel.

The man who came into your temple reminds you of a stray dog; that's why you let it inside. He doesn't pray to your God, but settles for good company.

There's no better company other than your God's, but your reluctance allows his stay. For the first few days he makes no mess, yet everything he does seems wrong. You wouldn't sit this way at a table. You wouldn't say this at this moment. You wouldn't smile this smile.

From the pit of your gut you know he is an intruder, but without offensive action, you can't scream bloody murder. It's better to wait - so he'll show his true colors.

In the best of days he leaves you alone to think, to study, to watch, to live, to communicate with your God. It is lovely how the silence makes the world grow prettier, it's justified why the ability to think comes secured by its own design.

It's days like this that the world is in its prime.

You allow yourself for some indulgence. You take the pathway to the garden and sit by the flowers. There's a new type of flower growing here; it's delicate and shy. Yet it's petals seem to grow bigger each day. Soon it'll fully bloom.

Just like the others, one day it will die; for now its existence is enough. You'll deal with it once more. That is the cycle.

Oh, but for the worst of days. This man wakes up in the jolliest of moods, talks for hours non-stop. There's nothing worse than white-noise that doesn't allow itself to be white-noise. Honestly, how can others accept this man for more than he is?

You are not from here as well. You just arrived, but your position is safely secured by the flowers. Come and be useful. That is simply how things work.

This man. You allow yourself to scorn when others a not around. You cannot become too focused on the wrong things, that could break the cycle sooner than intended. Frankly, only the wretched can't compose themselves. But you, you can be civil.

Until one day - one that could be one of those best of days - you reach the garden behind the temple to find the man walking along the trails of grass and flora.

That vision stings. No one can understand it as good as you, most people could see the world as they wished it would be. But you, you saw the things as they were. Like a third eye, invisible and obscene, you would see actions as the pieces of different cycles.

Why cycles? Because things tend to happen again and again. Nature is perfect that way; even if it means repeated suffering. But most of us? We are its pawns. We all have a part to play.

The man was treading off-limits. This wasn't his territory, and he didn't know the lines to say. But still he stood there, smelling the flowers, smiling at them. Until he reached your flower.

"What are you doing?" You ask, even if you think words are a path way to soft to deal with this.

"I didn't know there was a garden. You never showed me." Even now, your head is ringing with words of disappointment. Why didn't you think this was going to happen? "I just watered them."

"I water them. Everyday."

The man doesn't say anything. He's not bothered by it. Today, he came first.

"These are beautiful." He points in the general direction of your flower.

You nod because what else there is to say? You don't say the obvious.

The man then leaves.

You wonder what would it take to make him leave indefinitely.

The next few days you started coming to the garden sooner only to find the man standing there, watering your plants. He'd smile at you, make small, meaningless conversation and leave.

One day, the sun barely reaching the horizon, you wake up and make way to the back of the temple. The man is nowhere to be found. Alone with your flowers, you water one by one.

Satisfied, you turn to leave, but he's here. The man looks at you; he's confused even for his own actions. Why is he here, of all times? But he looks at you and the plants.

"Why so early?"

"They seemed thirsty." You say, even if it makes you an idiot. To you, they did seem thirsty. He doesn't make it right, his company is not as good.

In the back of your head, you do think rationally. That's the voice of reason you so proudly use as moral compass. It's just a flower. Why do you care? But you can't stop caring. People care for things. You care. You do.

"Careful, you might drown 'em there." He chuckled.

The man knows, you realize. This new routine of him; it's not out of love. He knows about the rules too. He came to take your place. It's just a flower. He isn't as stupid as he seems, but why do all of this for a flower? _It's an easy job. You're easy to replace.

"I'm not going to." You say before leaving him there at the garden. There's nothing to do, and you do not fight. You do not.

And so they went, the next days. Your silent battle became more ridiculous as time went on - you and him both know how it would sound if anyone heard of it. You two fighting over a flower?

Except, you're of the highest of principles. He does not deserve your place. You know your place. You work for it every day. You enjoy your silence. You enjoy the garden. He's not your equal.

The mere sight of him inspires pity.

Another morning comes and you stand in the hall separating the temple from the garden. He comes to your side.

"I enjoy my stay here, if I'm being honest."

You look at him incredulous.

"You were one of the few who accepted me first. Staying here made me happier." He turns to the garden and says. "I do enjoy the garden."

The both of you enter the garden. The flowers are all dead. So suddenly you couldn't imagine what caused this. You turn in anger to the man, to accuse him of breaking the cycle sooner, for his violent actions; but you find him stunned in place.

Realization makes you even sadder. This was not of his doing; you could not know what happened.

The man then turned and left the garden. And the temple.

You don't tend the garden anymore. You learned your lesson, you don't watch the cycles anymore.

There are no cycles. Yet you come to the garden everyday and pour salt over the soil.