Dandelion itself

I've always loved dandelions. Even before I could understand the meaning I now put to the word.

First of all they are yellow. My favourite colour. Who would've thought. The all-in-black kid admiring the sunniest colour. The colour of positivity, joy, the colour of happy souls. Of hope.

And the flower itself. The little bud that doesn't get noticed among the other rich blossoms with enticing smells.
But the dandelion  stands there. Not aware of its beauty. Humble.
An when it's dark it's still there, pushing his bulb high, trying to reach the sky. And when it gets cold, when all the other flowers bow their heads and disappear within the leaves, the dandelion stays.

And as if it's not enough, the yellow head turns into a lovely clock. One that the children rely on for the time and one that makes even the adults laugh when the small seeds get stuck in their hair, whilst others find their way towards the sun.

It stands for the freedom.

But sometimes I feel like that small seed. Stuck. In a moment. With a person. A part of me staying behing even though the others may get free.