There are plenty of things that make the heart beat. The brain, for example, and the will to live. That will stays with someone until they've done what they've wished to do with their lives. But what happens to those who do not know what their purpose is? What happens to those who have lost their will? Some will thrive. No purpose is just their purpose. They do whatever they want to do and even though they didn't contribute something great to society, they didn't harm it either. And some … will wither—shriveling like a dying flower at the end of its season.
When you think about it, flowers are a lot like humans. Flowers begin their lives closed up, only tiny buds in a sea of even smaller ones. Nothing different, nothing new, nothing worthwhile. Much like a child, not sure what they're going to be yet. For the moment, children sit in classrooms and learn if they're lucky enough, and as they grow, those children might bloom—much like a flower would—into something much prettier. You've got your late bloomers and your early ones, but they all bloom. Except for the ones who were stomped on by the people walking through the meadow of flowers. From a plant's perspective, humans need to watch where they're going. Perhaps to plants, we are nothing but mindless giants who can't mind our step, and perhaps to children, adults are the same.
Adults look down upon the young ones. "They need to learn," they say, yet it is merely an excuse to keep them from learning too much too early. They would have children sheltered from the cruelty of the world, but without darkness, you cannot have light. Sometimes, cruelty is just what a child needs to kick-start them into gear. It's a sad but real truth that most don't like to admit.
You should understand, now. There once was a child who was called Mikasa Ackerman. She started as a lovely flower, full of potential, and her parents thought she was already blooming into something even more beautiful if that were even possible. Excellent in every topic and liked by many, Mikasa had a good life. Her parents were kind, gentle folk who respected their daughter, but just like any other caring parents, wanted to keep her sheltered from the harsh reality of the world for as long as they could.
Thus, when the people came, she couldn't defend herself. A culture shock of sorts occurred. People did this to one another? Took hands to cheeks? Took knives to guts? Took axes to necks? Since when had the world been this awful? Since when had her peaceful reality ceased to exist? Had it ever existed at all?
No. No, it hadn't.
Mikasa was fair-skinned with startling black hair. Lips graced with the slightest essence of spring colors and warmth. One could not imagine the sunshine contained in her skin. Oh, how she glowed with opportunity! How she saw happiness and brightness in everything that surrounded her! Yet it must not have meant anything if all the happiness and warmth was able to leave her in minutes.
Taken by the people that came, this fair-skinned girl who planted spring with her very footsteps, became a crushed flower in a meadow. In the end, it seemed she hadn't ever truly bloomed in the first place.
Honestly, she was a flower killed before its roots even took hold and she thinks, 'Why must the prettiest flowers always be picked first?'