Sadness, the flower



If we were to put colour to sadness it would be a great lilac colour, maybe with streaks of blue and yellow with a hummingbird floating on top, in anticipation of the bitterness coming forth from the stems.

Maybe it would be like a painting of an impending mist, or a sad song suspended in the air, frozen by time, only to be thawed by momentary flashes of brilliance that will turn all the seers blind.

Sadness is a flower whose beauty can only be beheld by those lucky enough to have flown under its wings. To some it is the black rose, to others the daffodils. To some it is the invigorating smell of existence but to others carrion, a beautiful death.

Sadness is the unfurling of the rare flower that permits one to see the redness of the petals and the blackness of its soft underbelly, that reminds us of life and its nuances, the little things that we ignore and the fickle things that we love.

Maybe for some sadness is a gift. The soft petals of forever rain, the misty existence and the darkness of the clouds is freedom, freedom from sound, freedom from laughter, freedom from life.

Maybe for some it is the start of the summer, for others the end. Maybe for some it is a wedding anniversary, for others a memory of death. Either way, the flowers talk about a past that was good, reflect a tinge of longing over a time we had and lost and over a moment that has since become a fragment in our minds.




Maybe someday some of those in this warped feast will rise from the ashes, but sadly the graves of time do not forget. There, the buried are gone but the living move on in anguish. The dead get their rest and the living are left wandering in perpetuity.

Sadness is a black flower, and those who hold it dear are the lucky ones. For some, the best knots of their prayers is that the flower withers and falls but for many, they pray that it turns into a fruit. 

Sadness is a told story full of sighs and tears, of people who have long since moved on from life and grace, and of people who will not dare to forget. Sadness is a jewel, and those who hold it close are the lucky ones.

Sadness is a sea, and very few swim inside it. Everyone else drowns, but the sad ones float, to be abused by the waves, to be defiled by the calls of time, to be assailed by memories of this dark flower, beautiful and deadly.

We sing in sorrow, we are the lucky ones. They are loved, unlucky ones indeed, for they that love always lose.

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