Does anything last forever?
I always found it ironic how the custom of sending flowers became an appropriate response to loss.
As if mourning a loss wasn't trying enough, I must now sit and witness these flowers wither away as well. A secondary reminder of the ruthless cycle of life.
Maybe I am being too stoic as I gaze upon wilting flowers.
There is beauty in their distress, in the weight of their pain, in their transmutation to subdued and less adorned hues.
Aren't we all quite like withering flowers? Do we not become less agreeable to the eye — to the other — when we let our rotten show? Or is there beauty in this display?
When life sends you flowers, make potpourri.
