A Wilted Flower Floating in the Lake

A Wilted Flower Floating in the Lake
There it was, isolated from the populous. The rest of them grew prosperously at the boundaries of the lake, together. They bloomed beautifully and were happy to be together. And then there lay, in the far off distance towards the middle of the lake, the lonesome, broken down one, so close yet so far from the others.
Unwilling to move or to help itself, It began to wither away slowly. The others hadn’t even known where it was or what was going on. The wilted flower let itself sink in its own misery, doing nothing to oppose or to try to survive, just meekly accepting what had happened and what was to come. Throughout its life, the flower lived an independent life of its own.
Being what it was and what it wanted to be, without ever compromising itself to change to be like the others. And from some twisted act of fate, the only honest and truthful flower was now laying in a pool of its own anguish, waiting all on its own for its impending doom. The sense of desolation was palpable in the air surrounding it.
Then, so close to becoming completely overcome by this wretched feeling, a realization had happened, a new sensation was felt, a new light had been seen. Without even a second thought to it, the woed flower had wiped off its face any trace of previous suffering, and with a small and hesitant effort it put a weak smile on and had begun to uneasily approach its peers.