I love dead roses…

Because they are dead. Well, not really…

The rose, specifically the red rose, is a symbol of love. Least, that’s what we define it as in this culture. To dry them for display, you have to dry them upside down, which allows them to close up into a bud again. For me, this is love at its spark, and for each person that I love, I have a bouquet of dead roses to remind me why I love them. It’s important, because if I don’t have that initial spark of theirs, my love for them cannot grow, and theirs for me is stuck in perpetual stagnation. I hold on to these for the bad times, for the times that there is anger and hatred and times for when I doubt in myself and my capability to love. I hold onto these, even after my love for a person has grown and passed into transition to perfect love.

The uniquness of this collection, is the fact that I have never bought these roses, they were all given to my by the individuals they represent. There is only one bouquet that is missing, for means of destruction of a love that was based on false pretenses. Does that mean that the feeling was not love? Of course not, it was a true feeling for me, however much the knowledge following changed my colouring of it. Those roses were given in sacrifice to the fire, for a means of me moving on and acknowledging that love, while unique and perfect, is flawed by the fact that it exists in a flawed being. It was a lesson for me, a hard hitting one.

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