| | 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.
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