The White Cloth

Once upon a time, there was a white cloth.
Everyone wanted the white cloth because it was as white, clean, and beautiful as an angel's wing, but
the white cloth hated the idea of being dirtied.

One day, a princess from a neighboring town picked up the white cloth and said,
"Oh my, oh my. What a beautiful cloth. It's the perfect size and has the perfect texture. I've decided. I shall make this white cloth my handkerchief."
Hearing this, the white cloth bit the princess's index finger with a snap.
"Ouch!"
Although it liked the princess, who was dressed in a very lovely dress, it could not stand the thought of being turned into a handkerchief.
While the princess was busy being in pain, the white cloth caught the wind and flew far away.
"A handkerchief? Hmph! As if I'd let myself be dirtied."
The white cloth, muttering insults, was then caught by a large man.
"Oh. Now this is good. A fine cloth. Let's see, I'll make this into a bib for my son."
The man laughed heartily, a booming "Ha-ha-ha!"
He gripped the white cloth tightly and headed home. The white cloth briefly liked the house, which was made of wood and smelled of colorful, beautiful flowers, but it soon came to its senses.
"A bib? How filthy. I absolutely refuse!"
While the man was busy soothing his infant son, the white cloth slipped through a slightly open window and flew away.
From then on, the white cloth was almost turned into a grandmother's headscarf and was nearly sewn into a girl's stuffed animal. Each time, the white cloth fluttered away, desperately escaping from those who tried to dirty it.

The white cloth loved itself.
It could not love anything but itself.

"Beautiful, beautiful, white cloth. I belong only to myself. I will not be dirtied by anyone or anything."

Peering into a mirror, the white cloth spoke to itself.
It washed its body with precious water that people had worked hard to collect, and wore expensive perfume that a young man had splurged on for his mother; the white cloth was happy. It was almost as if it were under the illusion that the earth revolved solely for its sake.

The white cloth felt pity for the other cloths around it.
Cloths that were neither as talented nor as beautiful as itself had to silently become handkerchiefs, bibs, and clothes. How pitiful, the white cloth thought from the bottom of its heart.

One time, while the white cloth was traveling aimlessly on the breeze, it met another cloth.
That cloth was dying in the corner of the road. It was very dirty, stained the color of mud. The white cloth called out from a distance to the cloth, which was torn in places and gave off a foul odor.
"How pitiful. You are going to die soon. Originally, you must have been a white cloth just like me."
"No. I am not pitiful. It is true that I was once a cloth as white and clean as you. And yes, I will die soon. But I am not pitiful."
While the white cloth felt pity, it also looked down on that cloth from somewhere.
That is why the white cloth was surprised when the mud-stained cloth said that weakly, yet clearly. And for some reason, a desire to say something mean began to swell up inside it.
"Are you perhaps putting on a brave face? No matter how you look at it, you are the very picture of misery. Shall we ask that little bird over there? Whether you are miserable or not."
When the white cloth said that, the mud-stained cloth laughed as if it were funny.
"That's fine. But you cannot tell if someone is miserable or happy just by looking. Because it is up to me to decide whether I am miserable or happy."
The white cloth became even angrier.
It was because that mud-covered cloth smiled more happily than it, who was so beautiful and clean.
"Are you happy?"
This time, the mud-stained cloth asked the white cloth.
"Of course. I am obviously happy. Because I am so beautiful, clean, and elegant."
"Will you stop being happy if you get dirty?"
"Yes. And not just me. Every cloth is like that. No, not just cloths. Every living thing is like that. You cannot be happy if you are tattered, dirty, and old."
"You have a very miserable way of thinking."
The mud-stained cloth told the white cloth that.
"I used to think like you once, too. But I realized I was wrong."
The white cloth could not think of a good retort and had no choice but to listen silently to the mud-stained cloth's story.
"One day, I met a flower. It was a very small flower. It said, 'I bloomed in a crack in the concrete, so I will die soon,' and I told it, 'If you are stepped on by people, you will become a stronger flower.' Then it started saying, 'I will die because humans will pick me.' So I covered it with my cloth. Then it lamented, 'I will die because I cannot photosynthesize.'"
"You should have just left such a troublesome flower alone."
"That may be true. But I couldn't leave it alone. I wanted to be with the flower."
The mud-stained cloth coughed painfully, then began to speak again.
"From then on, I spent all my time with that flower. Supporting the lamenting flower, and sometimes being supported by it. I was stepped on by people and became dirtier and dirtier. But as long as the flower was healthy, that was fine. I could do anything for the sake of the flower."
"And what about the flower?"
"We were separated. A typhoon came, and I was blown away."
"See, you are miserable after all,"
the white cloth said.
"You are so dirty and hurt, and yet you can never see the flower again. Your actions were all for nothing."
The mud-stained cloth said nothing for a while.
The white cloth was frustrated. It was also disappointed, thinking that the sad story of such an old, worn-out cloth was of no use at all.
"You are pitiful,"
the mud-stained cloth said.
"You are very miserable because you cannot realize that you are pitiful."
The cloth continued,
"Just as the princess loved the prince, as the father loved his son, as the old woman loved her memories, and as the girl loved her stuffed animal, I hope you too can love someone or something. When that happens, you will know true happiness. And true misery as well."
And then, the mud-stained cloth tried to say something else, but
a strong wind blew. The white cloth was carried away on that wind.

Even after several days had passed, the white cloth's heart was restless.
The beauty, cleanliness, and nobility it had attained until now
began to seem like trivial things.
But if that were the case, what had the white cloth been doing all this time?
The white cloth stopped looking in the mirror.

"I am not wrong."

The white cloth told itself that.

"White cloth!"
As the white cloth was basking in the sun, lost in thought, a man approached. He grabbed the white cloth firmly with his right hand, and in his left hand, he held a torch with flames roaring.

"The water you used to wash your body was the last water in this village! Because of you, we cannot drink, and everyone is suffering!"

The man was the village chief. Then, the young man came to the white cloth.
"You used the perfume I was going to give to my mother! You thief!"
The young man shouted.

The white cloth thought of various excuses, but
the flames of the torch attacked the white cloth.

Crackle, crackle, crackle, crackle. The white cloth began to burn.
At the edge of the white cloth's vision, it saw that princess.
The princess was wiping her hands with a blue cloth, looking as if it were precious. The blue cloth also looked very happy.

The white cloth felt regret.
It felt lonely.
It felt sad.

Even though it was wrapped in flames and burning like this,
the white cloth's heart never warmed up once.
Instead, many tiny, tiny teardrops
were making the white cloth cold.