— For when a scholar meets a rose ☘︎
A conversation between two beings.
Between the green bushes, bloomed a rose with no color. White as paper, bare of the color red. It stood between the other roses, a sight for sore eyes. The Akademiya garden has become its home, it resides there bathing in the sun while young scholars roam about, admiring the pristine flower.
“How pretty.” Spoke one of the scholars to the other as they admired each pristine petal. After finishing their lessons, they'd never pass by the chance of taking a look at the strange birth of a single white rose amongst the reds. “Why hasn't anyone plucked it, I wonder.” It has been days, nearly reaching a week. Yet no scholar dares to pick it up by its stem and keep the flower for themselves.
“Perhaps the rose contains dangerous chemicals. It lacks any red petals. It would be wise to be cautious!” Answered a scholar, for they have not a clue to what causes such a phenomenon.
The scholars head on their way, slowly one by one leaving the garden in solitude. Birds fly by, perching on branches of trees. Taking residence under leaves. Singing along with one another as they greet each other in soft chirps.
It was a lovely time in the garden, when scholars were busy rebuking knowledge and brushing past aged papers with the purpose of pursuing answers, no one to witness the harmony created by the birds above. They sang so sweetly, causing flowers to sway along to their delicate whistles and chirps. Although, it seems a visitor has noticed the solitude provided in the garden. Slowly making his appearance with each step past the Akademiya's arch entrance.
The birds did not stop their singing, enjoying their time in the garden to notice a scholar settling below the tree shade, the same tree they reside above on the branches.
Once they do, they scatter amongst themselves, flapping their wings and disappearing into the blue horizon. Stopping the once sweet harmony. The change was abrupt, leaving the white rose rather disappointed as it asked; “Why must you scare them away, dear scholar?”
Scholars are known for being seekers of knowledge, each spoken word carries logic, and it seems this one is no different as he replied; “It's natural for them to fear me. For I am human. We hunt them.” before opening what seems to be a book. Having no care for the bleakness he brought upon the once comfortable garden.
The rose found the scholar's words to be cynical, yet correct. Laced in frost while bearing truth. It found itself at a loss of words, it always was facing scholars of his caliber. “I do not recall Scholars hunting birds, you all hunt knowledge as far as the wind blows.” The scholar bears no quick witty words nor does he spare a glance. It seems as if his awareness of the world has been cut off, his focus only being on the words written in paper.
And thus, the silence returned once more. Uncomfortable and inconvenient such as the scholar’s presence in the garden.
“Scholars care not for what holds no knowledge!” Cried one of the red roses to its neighbor.
“Indeed, what a rude act; favoring a lousy book over talks!” said the neighboring rose.
The white rose spoke of nothing, watching from afar as the scholar flips over to another page. It has been admired by many scholars for different reasons; may it be aesthetics, the questions its existence brought, and what it looked like under their protruding lenses. Wind blew over the garden, pinching leaves out of their branches to float in the air dancing amongst petals. The white rose swayed slightly, though it remained standing in its bushes, the wind had brushed back the scholar's hair away from his face.
The white rose took notice of the redness in his eyes, a glass dome forming over the pair threatening to break as the scholar stared down at the page of his book. No words can be read and none can describe his current state. “.. Dear scholar, why do you weep?” The white rose inquired, for it had never witnessed tears from a scholar before. The sight before it contradicts a previous assumption made of his kind.
The scholar does not give out his answer quickly, choosing to wipe away at his eyes and focus his gaze to the pages of his book. “One of the many ways humans clear one's mind is to let it flow out rather than containing.” An explanation behind an act, but not the reason for it.
“You have not answered my question, Dear Scholar.” The white rose pressed on with gentle curiosity.
He does not give out his answer quickly, choosing to brush through another page in his book perhaps thinking to himself before replying. “My grandmother passed away.” He spoke the news yet carried no sense of grief in his voice. “I just finished arranging her funeral. It will be held tomorrow evening according to the schedule.”
No wind dares to interrupt the silence that blankets over the garden. The red roses remain quiet, wilting in their own shame. Only the white rose watched, as the scholar's face bore no emotion yet his rapid blinking spoke otherwise in an attempt to break away the glass dome before they could form once more.
“She is someone dear to you then, Dear Scholar.” The white rose said, and the scholar doesn't deny its assumption. His eyes remain solely on his book, pages filled with information easily found in the akasha terminal yet he preferred the hard copy.
“I do. There'd be no need for me to arrange her funeral if I don't.” A disheartening yet logical response. The white rose has learned to appreciate this part of scholars by now. An infuriating yet endearing mannerism of his.
“Do you have anything to remember her by?” throughout the days it has lived in the garden, overhearing the dialogues scholars share to one another. It has learned that ‘sentimentality’ is something humans hold.
Being in possession of an item or an inanimate object acting as a representative of someone they admired and loved. Most of the time, that object is a way to remember someone who no longer stands on the surface but rests below it. The white rose cannot fully grasp the concept as it is only a flower. But it has seen the many reverent acts of others when it comes to their sentimental object..
The scholar does not reply, maybe he will never. The white rose would not be surprised at the silence, it had predicted his answer would none at all. It does not push for one this time.
“I'm holding it.” He uttered after a beat.
“.. Your book?” It inquired despite knowing the answer.
He sent a glance towards the white rose, still bearing no emotion on the surface of his face. “Must I answer that?”
The white rose stayed quiet, watching the scholar return his focus back to his book. It has concluded that the scholar lacks any capability in social sensitivity, it is sure that fact will bite him in the rear in whatever future he may strive for. “.. I suppose not. Though your reactions are unexpected.”
“Is there an ideal reaction to someone's passing?” A rhetorical question, for a seemingly nonexistent grief.
“I’m afraid I have no answer for that, I am simply a rose in a garden.”
“You can attempt to find one. Rose or not, we're able to communicate with one another. Which means you have a mind of your own. Why restrict yourself to a mere flora?” The scholar’s words surprise the white rose for It does not think highly of itself, it knows that it simply is a flora. A flower. To be admired, to be used, to be thrown away for another that will bloom. It's a cycle which will end with a cut to its stem. It had long accepted that fate.
Yet now, the scholar had questioned that cycle. Whether it would allow itself to be forever bound and labeled, or perhaps, it will make a path of its own.
“.. I am restricted, Dear Scholar.” The white rose admits, unashamed. “Your question had brought me to a halt, regarding my existence. I have questioned whether my difference amongst others is truly a blessing or simply a veiled curse. I imagine my life will end under lenses of a scholar’s lab or plucked away for a fleeting love confession. Your inquiry made me realize that I..” It trails off, placed back to a stand-off between comfort of acceptance or freedom of difference.
One will give the white rose a sense of knowing fate while the other gives it a choice without knowing what lies beyond it. And as if sensing the white rose’s contemplation, the scholar gave a word of his own; “Do you need my judgement?” as he swipes his hand over to another page of his book.
The white rose hesitates, judgement from a scholar sounds intimidating. Even more from this particular one. “.. Go on.” Nonetheless, it is rather a curious one.
“Accepting fate is the logical answer.” The scholar never ceases to surprise it. Yet the white rose remained silent, allowing him to continue. “It is what I would choose,” A subjective answer then. “having to fight fate seems rather tiresome.” A scholar who lacks ambition? It seems there’s more than one anomaly in this garden.
The white rose couldn’t stop itself from questioning, “Then why become a scholar?”
“Because books intrigued me. Automatically, so did knowledge.” Such a simple and refined answer, one the white rose couldn't help but feel jealous of. “And If I may add,” The scholar glances over to the bush it resides in. “One's difference shouldn’t be made a curse or a blessing defined by others. You are the one holding that decision, so pick as you like.”
The way he spoke of it, the weight of his words are like the wind. You will feel the breeze yet unable to grasp it. Yet the white rose who hadn’t verbalized its answer, had finally found one. “I desire for more, while also keeping comfort within my petals.” A rather self indulgent answer but one it had concluded to.
The scholar does not reply, allowing the quiet garden to settle with the flower's conclusion. With his controlled movements, he closes the book. Slowly, he rises up to his feet. The distant ringing bell coming from the Akademiya echoes in the air, a sign of the return of scholars for a moment of leisure after lessons.
The scholar desired not to be with the rest of his caliber. Yet he does not leave immediately, instead, he turns to face the white rose. His expression remained stone, like a drawing made of ink on paper. “You want to live a comfortable life while maintaining ambition.” Simplifying its words with his own before adding; “Then you and I aren’t so different.” as he turned his heel and made his way back past the arches, disappearing into the hall as scholars slowly returned into the garden. Slowly filling it once more.
The white rose had not expected a similarity in desires between itself and a scholar.
But it was not an unpleasant surprise.
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Originally made for my friend but I thought it seemed worthy enough to be my first upload on this blog. So i hope you all enjoyed it!