A Dead Rose
she was a hoarder of infinite thoughts and countless
emotions. She firmly believed that people should live by moments and not days.
Since moments are nothing but a collection of memories, she wouldn't let a
single memory leave her mind.
The others deemed it impossible, but she had a
trick to do the impossible. She would simply materialize her memories by
assigning them to everyday objects and hoard them. Her house was a mess, but
also, an ocean of metaphors.
In between the pages, 193 and 194 of John Green's "The fault in our stars" was one such metaphor. A metaphor, known to her and nobody else. Hazel Grace and Augustus Waters were entrusted with the task of safeguarding it at all times. But they couldn't stop me from noticing it.
It was a Rose. The stem was dry and the flower had withered. It was difficult to differentiate the leaves from the petals. Everything looked the same - sapless, juiceless and black.
It was once red, she says.
Admiring its tragic beauty, I succumb to silence. But she notices a thousand questions in my eyes and decides to weigh it.
Dead flowers are beautiful and innocent. People start hating them as time goes, but I love them. It is a perfect metaphor. Dead flowers are like the hearts of people who have grown physically, but they are still in their childhood.
Why should we let go of our innocence and curiosity, when we become mature and responsible? Why can't we continue to be a child at heart, despite growing up? She fires valid questions, for which I have no answers.
You usually wouldn't explain your metaphors to anyone, but why did you make me an exception? I ask.
Because you have a beautiful Rose at heart, she smiles.
___
In between the pages, 193 and 194 of John Green's "The fault in our stars" was one such metaphor. A metaphor, known to her and nobody else. Hazel Grace and Augustus Waters were entrusted with the task of safeguarding it at all times. But they couldn't stop me from noticing it.
It was a Rose. The stem was dry and the flower had withered. It was difficult to differentiate the leaves from the petals. Everything looked the same - sapless, juiceless and black.
It was once red, she says.
Admiring its tragic beauty, I succumb to silence. But she notices a thousand questions in my eyes and decides to weigh it.
Dead flowers are beautiful and innocent. People start hating them as time goes, but I love them. It is a perfect metaphor. Dead flowers are like the hearts of people who have grown physically, but they are still in their childhood.
Why should we let go of our innocence and curiosity, when we become mature and responsible? Why can't we continue to be a child at heart, despite growing up? She fires valid questions, for which I have no answers.
You usually wouldn't explain your metaphors to anyone, but why did you make me an exception? I ask.
Because you have a beautiful Rose at heart, she smiles.
___
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