Somewhere in my room, I have dusty vase of dead roses, so dry and brittle that a single touch destroys an entire petal. They were given to me almost two and a half years ago by a boy. For some reason, I haven’t thrown them away. I just can’t bring myself to. I have no remaining feelings for the boy, nor do I have any desire to go back to the point in my life during which he gave them to me. Maybe I keep those roses because they remind me of the reality of life:
It’s filled with wonderful things, like a spring garden full of roses, but they never last. As soon as you find something you love, something that fills you with joy, it breaks apart into powder. That powder slips through your fingers and fertilizes the endless field of broken memories. “There will be more flowers!” they all say, but what they don’t realize is that that single flower was special. So, so special, and nothing could be planted in its place. It was a blissful feeling in bloom, something so pleasing that it just begged to be looked at. But it died in the peak of its beauty. Pleasures, you see, are deceptive traps. They lead you on, bring you in, enchant you, only to cut you off in a millisecond. You’re left wondering if you did enough to appreciate it. Did you take it for granted? Did you love it as much as you could have? All you possess, then, is a handful of gorgeous powder and the renewed knowledge that yes–all things die.