Sweet peas

I seem to have reached a high development, thought the pea, which still sat on its perch in the pea pods closed ward.

Here we sit in a row and oblivious barely one another, but I have read that I am perfect, and that the only thing that makes me not feel it, is that I doubt it. It is difficult to regard oneself as perfect and free when sitting here and rubbing on a small pea, with that indefinable expression on her beautiful face that makes me quite soft and gives a sweet murmur in my heart. I love sweet peas, and one can soon enough become as yellow peas if one do not keep the way of fairy tales kingdoms tidy. But, for my part, the hope is still light green.

I’m sitting here in pitch – dark but have seen green light flashes, and if I wanted anything else, I would not be free, as I would be if I dared to believe I was. Hmmm, yes but so Hallelujah then, as they say.

I recently heard about a princess who should try one of us under a pile of mattresses to check out whether she was a real princess or a fake. Such a story one can be both yellow and green with envy of not having experienced in the reality, but I call it anyway escapism … on its own way.

The storytellers stick together like peas in a pod and forget what’s real. I know that I am, and I am, basically, neither bound nor biased in general. I have heard talk of a world outside, but what’s outside? What a fantasy.

A boy saw the bulging pea pod, loosened it gently from the stalk and gave it a handling accustomed press at the top and bottom on the long sides, so it opened with a bang. The light poured in, and as the pea slipped into the boy’s mouth, it thought:

“I achieved freedom, and I managed to see the light.”