The Flower Named Happiness: From Fragmented Selves to the Realm of Nothingness
🖎 "This piece was born in a strangely beautiful moment — in the middle of a noisy afternoon, with a rumbling stomach and a half-eaten baguette in hand.
Thoughts came in fragments—reflective, rebellious, raw.
There are moments when the world falls silent.
No noise, no goals, no validation—just the sound of the wind brushing against the window or the gentle grumble of a stomach in the late afternoon.
And from that stillness, a quiet question rises:
Who am I in this vast universe?
Not someone else asking—just the self, asking itself.
At some point, it became clear: feelings of failure, loneliness, being misunderstood or unrecognized—these are just feelings. They come and go.
So when did the outside world start defining our worth?
When did we begin to believe that only when we are acknowledged do we deserve happiness?
There’s a story about a girl named Mai.
She often felt isolated—unseen by her friends, unheard by the world. She believed that once someone validated her, the loneliness would fade. But that belief kept her in a loop: seeking recognition to feel happy, needing happiness to feel valuable, and waiting for value to be confirmed by someone else.
One day, an old man told her about a mythical flower named Happiness that bloomed on a mountaintop.
Mai believed him—and began the climb.
The journey was long, painful, and full of self-doubt.
But with every step forward, every hardship overcome, something within her began to crack.
Fragments of her old self broke away—old versions of "Mai" she no longer needed.
She didn’t grow stronger to prove herself.
She learned to listen.
To live truthfully.
To be whole—without needing to be seen.
The truth is, we’re all like Mai.
We each carry a multitude of selves within us:
The Fearful Self, the Fragile Self, the Angry Self, the Gentle Self, the Yearning Self, the Awakened Self.
Sometimes they fight. Sometimes they work together.
But together, they shape the journey of what it means to be human.
And if these selves could be classified like species in biology, they wouldn’t belong to any known kingdom.
They would belong to something older, deeper—the Kingdom of Nothingness.
This Nothingness isn’t negative emptiness.
It’s the root—where all selves originate.
A silent source that gives birth to every form, yet holds onto none.
From this Nothing, countless selves evolve.
Each emerges in a different space, time, and situation.
Some are harmonious, some in conflict.
But they all exist for a reason: to help life refine itself, grow, and return home more whole.
The self with the most wisdom isn’t the one with the loudest voice—but the one that dares to trace its steps backward. To return to its beginning, to the soul’s original silence.
This journey echoes another tale—ancient and cosmic.
Wukong, the legendary Monkey King, born from stone, rebelled against heaven, and was ultimately trapped under a mountain for 500 years.
But beneath the surface of this myth lies something more profound than just mischief and might:
A broken soul trying to remember where it came from.
In Black Myth: Wukong, this legend is reborn into a darker, more introspective realm.
Wukong is no longer just a mischievous monkey—he is a being torn by contradictions, haunted by his fragmented selves.
Each battle is not just with monsters, but with the reflections of who he was—or thought he was.
Each transformation, each illusion, each enemy... is just another face of his own divided self.
And just like Mai, and like us—Wukong learns:
The truest journey isn’t forward.
It’s inward.
🌻If Happiness were a flower, it wouldn’t bloom in a garden where everyone could easily find it.
It would bloom high above, at the edge of the clouds—waiting silently for those who are willing to climb.
Not to pluck it, but to understand why they needed it in the first place.
Because happiness isn’t the reward.
It’s the path.
It grows in the courage to face our shadows,
in the surrender of needing to be understood,
in the peace of breathing without needing to prove anything.
Only when we stop clinging to a fixed definition of "who we are"—do we truly begin to live.
To live without validation.
To live without becoming anyone else.
To just be.
The flower quietly learning to bloom in the airless space between forms.
The seeker returning to the root—where names dissolve, but everything is whole.
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