How horrible is it to live in a world where love feels like a disease; cruel and incurable with mediocre distractions in attempts of forgetting that you’re sick.
It consumes you, it drives you to oblivion, it drags you to places where you never thought you’d end up, and then it leaves you there to fester and rot upon your infection, rendering you too weak until it eventually subsides. Once it does you’re left to deal with its remnants; that deception growing in your chest, hardening your very heart little by little until it slows down and starts to beat at a slow odd pace, chilling every one of your vessels until they’re ice; forcing you to promise yourself that you shall never expose yourself to such a pathogen again.
How sad is it to be forced to stuff down your emotions, having to store them deeply until they eventually die and poison you. In a world where nonchalance is praised people hold themselves back from expressing themselves; the passions once declared so dramatically by our ancestors are now just considered ridiculous.
This is the reason we live in a graying world; our art no longer stands for the only emotion that transcends time and worlds; we now settle for cheap depictions of our flawed world with no basis or morals which make them as temporary as the fleeting feeling of lust. They crumble with the passing of time until they are left in the gray heap that constitutes our very existence today; so now we live surrounded by the failed attempts of showing emotion, making it so every which way we turn, we are reminded of what we’ve lost as a society.
So now we are forced to reap wilted flowers from seeds that have been nourished by conflicting nutrients, setting their growth up for failure. That is why we now carry bouquets of dead flowers and offer them in reconciliation as the ghost of what they could’ve been. Their bright colors and unique shapes live only in our imagination as we are reminded of the fields described in literary works written back in the days where people still allowed the substance of their very souls to flow freely.
We are now haunted by our dead flowers, so much so that as we’re walking through our paths in life and we encounter the rarity of a luscious living flower, we will turn away from it, deluded by the mirage of being able to find a field overflowing with them. However, the further we walk, we are able to witness that those fields we encounter have been murdered by that same disease that has infected our own systems, leaving us disoriented in a dry field deprived of all color and scent. People no longer appreciate quality over quantity, therefore we are stuck in our delirium and are unable to strip ourselves from the cruel facade we’ve imposed in our imaginations.
This is the reason we’ve been unable to find the antidote to that poison that infiltrates our very lives. Once we are cut with the dull knife of unrequited love, we are consumed by the storm within us, destroying all our fields with the illness that consumes us. We become obstinate and unwilling to be the living flower in somebody else’s path, for we consider it useless being the only living flower in a barren field piled with dead leaves; ignorant to the fact that only the living petals are able to soothe the aches.
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