“If you love a flower, don’t pick it up.
Because if you pick it up, it dies and ceases to be what you love.
So if you love a flower, let it be.
Love is not about Possession.
Love is about appreciation.”
Tumultous emotions stir up a storm in my mind as I try to make sense between hurt, joy and the hazy emotions of fondness. And I cease to make sense to anyone I try to explain my dilemma to. At one hand there is a promise of a lifetime full of laughter and joy but there is distance and on the other hand, lies this stubborness of possession…a security, a warmth hard to explain. Despite the fact that it is baseless because its a clap where only one hand is participating….the enotions still singe when you know you can’t have something you appreciate so much.
And every day , you only fall deeper…. fooling yourself that you’re over it and this is no great milestone and you’ll cross it in no time. You’re all happy and confident … displaying that facade of a smile while youre tearing up inside with conflicting thoughts.
You cant keep yourself from trying to pluck the rose despite the fact that its put up thorns so this beauty of your simultaneous existence never ceases to exist. You understand the rose’s reason to resist you because it shares no mutual appreciation besides the fact that you’ve come to share a certain companionship in the recent past.
But there is this well of hope that has been pushing people off the ledge, making them do things that are either extraordinaire or flabbergasting. And this hope instills a certain foolish longing and stubborness … you begin to believe that you could keep the rose alive with your own golden strands of life force. You know how precious it is to you. But you fail to express it the way a bard would convince a naive listener. You just sit beside the rose, relishing the symphony while it lasts, holding on to every bit of fragrance that wafts towards you. You know you would never pluck the rose against its wish… and your hope begins to wane…turning into pain.
And your comrades pat your back and try to degrade the image of the rose in your eyes so that you can leave it behind. You nod your head, stand up even and dust yourself… preparing to leave but you’re lost in a bedlam of voices in your head.
You know its best if you let go of your fascination and walk towards the reality but your fever dream calls you back..
Moreover … whenever you sat beside the rose , the rest of the world seemed to disappear and …. it kept you safe in another dimension…always whispering the right words, the warmest of phrases that made you feel so inexplicabky happy….you only wish that could happen once more. The rose innocently calls at you, not knowing what you’re going through and simply waving off your facade of ignorance as your childishness and turning away from you…
You want to explain but you know it wont make any sense to this world as they only see bits of the story and they know not how much you value whatever little you experienced.
The road ahead is unclear but when has it ever been too clear? The rose still stands… while I sneak a look at it and think to myself, I wish things were the other way around….and Indidn’t have to be the one to choose… whether to walk away or persist.