The dictionary gave dandelions (민들레) to Corcho. If we turn the last two syllables of that word into a verb, what we get is making noise (들레다). Not quite a roar, but something worthy of our lion nonetheless. And with the syllable that was left, we created the beginning of a fairytale (민담).
There are some flowers that only have one word to say innocence, to say love, melancholy or countless other similar things. And there are other flowers that have a whole legend, a tale written only for them. The problem is that those flowers don’t get to write their own tale, they don’t get to choose their own words.
Someone has chosen the word for the dandelions. But the lions want to dictate their own legend. And the problem is that they can’t reach an agreement.
In that field of dandelions nothing can be heard above the roars of the lions. They roar over each other, repeating the legends they want to be remembered for over and over again. Twenty thousand legends get tangled up. Words get lost. Only roars are left. And their yellow flowers turn into something fragile, into something worn-out, whose existence hangs by a thread. Because what brings words to life isn’t roaring them but listening to them. And in that field there isn’t a single dandelion willing to listen to the others.
The tale ends with a gust of wind. Barely a puff. That silences the roars of those lions and casts that field into oblivion. Because those that aren’t willing to listen don’t leave anything worth remembering in their wake.
I don’t see the resemblance. The edges of my leaves could be any animal’s teeth. If you were set on naming something, anything, the first weed you set your eyes on, after a lion, you could have looked a little bit higher. The sun hangs in the sky, and every dandelion has a yellow flower at the end of its stalk. That flower at least has a passing resemblance to a lion’s mane. But what do I know? You are the star, and I am just part of the scenery. I have no meaning, no name, other than the one you so graciously have given to me.
Who cares about the color yellow? I don’t. Not anymore. I wonder why I wasted so much time thinking about it. Trying to come up with a meaningful name. A thousand different connotations. And at least one comparison that wouldn’t break me into tears. I don’t know why it took us so long to fill the sky to the brim with our roars. But the wind is here now, and I won’t let it go to waste. Look at all that dandelion fluff. What more could I ask for? More than a dozen stars ready and eager to shoot from my heart. What more could I wish for?
Was it hunger? Was it fear? You looked at dandelion leaves, and rows of sharp teeth were what you saw. But I see fishbones. I am not thirsty for blood. Sinking my teeth into someone else won’t do anything to reaffirm that I am alive. I am rooted in place, and I can’t help dreaming of swimming far, far away. But dreams are just a way of avoiding life, and that is why I see fishbones in my leaves. I know what awaits me beyond the horizon. Something that will never live up to my dreams. And another horizon in the distance. Always another horizon. Luring me. Farther and farther away, until I run out of blood, or the sun in my eyes sets for good. And I don’t know about you, but I am beyond help. Because those dreams are deeply rooted in me. They aren’t just dandelion fluff that the wind can help me blow away.
The sun is yellow. The sky is blue. Blue may not be everything, but the sky is endless, and that is why birds like the sun will never run out of freedom. I am a dandelion. My sun isn’t a bird, truthfully speaking, it isn’t even a sun. I have a yellow flower that gives way to white nothingness. And a green stalk. If I ever had a touch of blue, it didn’t offer much resistance. Countless roots bleed from my green stalk. And I don’t like the wishes that are pinned to my heart. Envy hurts. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wishing the sun would just bleed into the sky. Giving me a birdcage I could add my green stalk to.
♪♪♪ Roar. Roar. Roar. Louder than all the other dandelions. Just roar. The sky has given you its blessing, you may drown everything else, every word that hasn’t come out of your mouth, out. Out. Out. Out. It’s your name. Don’t let anyone else define it for you. ♪♪♪
I don’t want to be remembered for my teeth. But that’s what others see when I roar. Those teeth overshadow my words, but I don’t know what else to do. Mind-reading isn’t a thing, and heart-to-hearts are no good. Hearts don’t just love, they crave. They would do just about anything to sink their teeth deep, and lies don’t even count among the worst of those things.
I should have bitten my tongue. I should have kept all my words in my heart. But I thought that I already knew everything there was to know under the sun, and I saw no harm in roaring with all my lungs. The worst that could happen was that some other dandelion would drown my words out. That’s what I thought. But then the wind blew, and there was a flutter of white. My words took wing, I couldn’t bite down on them, and I lost sight of my legend in the fluff of countless other dandelions. The wind wrote something that hurt to read. And I wish the sun had told me that losing ownership of my words was a possibility.
You want me to tell you a story? Something that can be passed from mouth to mouth without remorse? You are right, if I gave you beautiful words, it would be a pity to wear them out. Let me think… There was once a flower whose yellow rivaled the sun’s. The sun hated that flower but didn’t want to dirty his light. So, he tickled the nose of a sleeping lion. And when the lion inevitably sneezed, that flower disappeared in a flutter of pale, forgettable white.