|See... one can sit there and try to convince me all they want, but they're not going to sway me. I will never believe that this plastic flower on my windowsill knows true happiness. Sure - it's always in bloom, and true - its leaves are evergreen, yet this poor creature is degraded into a function of decorum, gathering the dust of conformity and security. A random bystander may reflect on the flower's being and conclude it serves a purpose while avoiding the pitfalls of reality, the cruelties of life. Sheltered and encapsulated by time in the most faultless of poses - "your existence is perfect." |
Never once did someone stop to appreciate its radiance, however... to praise the dull shades of yellow and burgundy of its waxy petals, to appreciate the non-existent aroma of its scent. When is the last time someone sat in muted awe of its allure, realizing the intangible beauty of life itself?
Blame not the observer, for I am burdened by the tactile quality of my reality - do not expect me to join in your charade and be entranced by your artificial virtues. Onerous as reality may be, I embrace it and am enthralled by the unknown it brings, for what is unknown is only that which is not yet learned.
You, my dear, live a life of imitation, a permanent loss of identity in a state of limbo. Purposeless as it may be, you sit in a vase without water, staring through the grimy window, longingly sighing at the prospect of your leaves shriveling up and dying, if only for a day you could feel the gentle zephyr of spring and the warm caress of the sun. My heart is heavy, laden with the truth - for some, that window is dirtier and thicker than for others, but yours is most aphotic and impenetrable of all.