Oxygen.

Written from the perspective of a wise cherry blossom tree in Konoha’s cherry blossom forest, this story accounts the lives of 19 year old Boruto and Sarada.

In love.

At least its what their eyes say, if only we knew their language.

They often visit us, seemingly when extremely weary. But after about 10 breezes of laughter and playful gestures, they always find a way to rest their burdens in our fallen leaves, along with their bodies.

Look at them, all strapped down in each other’s arms. I’d liken it to how my toes stretch in hopes of becoming as near to the soil as one.  Or even how the birds envelop their offspring to provide protection, but also to gain a certain peace, a certain rest. Such rest can only be attained in having all that you need with you, all that you’d die for, and all which makes it much easier to live.

The boy with the sunflower hair, his eyes rest on her as she watches me, almost as though she can tell that I’m watching them. She’s much more perceptive than he his, but also just as oblivious. In her, something lays burning like a flame. One that is very malleable in possibilities, dangerous but also protective, very guarded by her. For she is aware of it and serves as its master, adamant not to let it have its own way. It would choose destruction if given the opportunity. She chooses for it to be light.

He sometimes provokes her to reconsider this with his antics. In him slumbers remnants of a beast of some sort. It seems to lend to his  fun-loving nature. Though I cant help but recall that many seasons before, it beamed through his ocean orbs much more vibrantly. Its almost as if trauma has sullied them just enough to keep him alert. It serves as a reminder to him that nothing’s promised, or no one for that matter.

-//

They’ve submitted themselves to each other, more than they even know it yet. Their pattern tells of this, its written in the trails. These same trails that as children they often darted through, one often in chase of the other in childish vengeance. As they grew older, they walked these paths alone not knowing that sometimes the other did as well. In that phase of the moon, they each always seemed to be in search of something more.

Soon after, that dreadful day came when our breath was stolen from us. My brothers and sisters, we all fought to breathe in that moment, we all fought for life. You’d think we’d be used to it all by now, their kind and their wars. But each time the air becomes visible, cloaked with the dark of dust and smoke, it rises as a reaper. Death was upon us, and the fear of it is not something to ever grow accustomed to. Just as we thought we bared this misery alone, bloodied, exhausted, and draped in torn cloth, they found each other beneath our shade. She wept in his arms that day.

As perceptive as she is, I’d like to believe that she understood our pain and grieved for us. But no, somehow her pain transcended ours and for the very first time, it also exceeded my very own understanding.  To this day, the memory enamours me. The boy understood it, her ache. His eyes shared the same kind while holding her, or even worse. He bore his and hers that day, and that night on his own he returned to release it through streams down his face and shouts that cleared his lungs.

Many days had passed with no sight of either of them. It slowly became easier to breathe again, and the air offered life once more. She eased her way back into her lonely visits, once again passively in search of something. After that suffocating night, one would think she’d be in search of everything. But for the first time since I’ve known her, her eyes and her stride told us that she knew exactly what she was looking for, or rather waiting for.

I began to understand again, for we had missed him too. In time, we had also learned to miss her.

-//

I’d reckon that the sun completed half of its orbit before he returned, but he did. On his own, just as he was the last time I saw him, he sat and gazed. No streams, no rivers this time. Oh no, nothing of such sort, but he was drenched. He sat submerged in an air of pride and ease. That which he fed to us unknowingly. He was different, grown. His eyes housed a stillness in them to match, one that he carries with him to this very day. Strongest within his essence was a pining, one that he’d relieve when the sun rose again in our forest.

For the first time since that fateful day of darkness, they stood together below us in a hungry embrace.

After many reigns of the moon, their laughter slowly returned, and even their childish chases on rare occasions. The tumbling, the teasing, the joy and peace, it finally resumed, for them and for us.

Written from the perspective of a wise cherry blossom tree in Konoha’s cherry blossom forest, this story accounts the lives of 19 year old Boruto and Sarada.

In love.

At least its what their eyes say, if only we knew their language.

They often visit us, seemingly when extremely weary. But after about 10 breezes of laughter and playful gestures, they always find a way to rest their burdens in our fallen leaves, along with their bodies.

Look at them, all strapped down in each other’s arms. I’d liken it to how my toes stretch in hopes of becoming as near to the soil as one.  Or even how the birds envelop their offspring to provide protection, but also to gain a certain peace, a certain rest. Such rest can only be attained in having all that you need with you, all that you’d die for, and all which makes it much easier to live.

The boy with the sunflower hair, his eyes rest on her as she watches me, almost as though she can tell that I’m watching them. She’s much more perceptive than he his, but also just as oblivious. In her, something lays burning like a flame. One that is very malleable in possibilities, dangerous but also protective, very guarded by her. For she is aware of it and serves as its master, adamant not to let it have its own way. It would choose destruction if given the opportunity. She chooses for it to be light.

He sometimes provokes her to reconsider this with his antics. In him slumbers remnants of a beast of some sort. It seems to lend to his  fun-loving nature. Though I cant help but recall that many seasons before, it beamed through his ocean orbs much more vibrantly. Its almost as if trauma has sullied them just enough to keep him alert. It serves as a reminder to him that nothing’s promised, or no one for that matter. 

-//

They’ve submitted themselves to each other, more than they even know it yet. Their pattern tells of this, its written in the trails. These same trails that as children they often darted through, one often in chase of the other in childish vengeance. As they grew older, they walked these paths alone not knowing that sometimes the other did as well. In that phase of the moon, they each always seemed to be in search of something more.

Soon after, that dreadful day came when our breath was stolen from us. My brothers and sisters, we all fought to breathe in that moment, we all fought for life. You’d think we’d be used to it all by now, their kind and their wars. But each time the air becomes visible, cloaked with the dark of dust and smoke, it rises as a reaper. Death was upon us, and the fear of it is not something to ever grow accustomed to. Just as we thought we bared this misery alone, bloodied, exhausted, and draped in torn cloth, they found each other beneath our shade. She wept in his arms that day. 

As perceptive as she is, I’d like to believe that she understood our pain and grieved for us. But no, somehow her pain transcended ours and for the very first time, it also exceeded my very own understanding.  To this day, the memory enamours me. The boy understood it, her ache. His eyes shared the same kind while holding her, or even worse. He bore his and hers that day, and that night on his own he returned to release it through streams down his face and shouts that cleared his lungs. 

Many days had passed with no sight of either of them. It slowly became easier to breathe again, and the air offered life once more. She eased her way back into her lonely visits, once again passively in search of something. After that suffocating night, one would think she’d be in search of everything. But for the first time since I’ve known her, her eyes and her stride told us that she knew exactly what she was looking for, or rather waiting for. 

I began to understand again, for we had missed him too. In time, we had also learned to miss her.

-//

I’d reckon that the sun completed half of its orbit before he returned, but he did. On his own, just as he was the last time I saw him, he sat and gazed. No streams, no rivers this time. Oh no, nothing of such sort, but he was drenched. He sat submerged in an air of pride and ease. That which he fed to us unknowingly. He was different, grown. His eyes housed a stillness in them to match, one that he carries with him to this very day. Strongest within his essence was a pining, one that he’d relieve when the sun rose again in our forest. 

For the first time since that fateful day of darkness, they stood together below us in a hungry embrace. 

After many reigns of the moon, their laughter slowly returned, and even their childish chases on rare occasions. The tumbling, the teasing, the joy and peace, it finally resumed, for them and for us.