I spent three hours analyzing a sick rose today. Not the actual flower, but the metaphor of it; dying love. I delved into the meaning of it, the implications of love actually dying, of it being a living breathing entity that is capable of getting sick. Part of that analysis was gauging my own reaction to this notion, oddly enough I was not impervious—depression set in at the memories that were coaxed forth. That withering image of once bountiful crimson was successful in conjuring up the raw reveries of passions past. As though that mere image in words (it was a poem) transported me back, and forced me, for however short a period it was, to relive the painful memories of falling out of love. Slingshotting back to the moment where you know love was no longer a possibility, and was more and more turning into a liability of your emotional capacity; in staying in the dying embers of this relationship you were susceptible of infecting yourself with whatever was decaying your union.
It was a melancholy couple of hours as I was forced to exorcize the demons within, contemplate them in an academic vein, and yet fail at staying wholly objective. Parts came undone, the guard was lowered and spilled onto the page, and perhaps in these moments of weakness, confession was truly possible. The raw wound of the soul is open to the air of the people, and the bandage is long in coming. May the infection refrain from taking up residence–if only to let the lovely disaster of it all remain.
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