Skip to content

Of dried roses and burnt diaries

December 21, 2010

I recently bought flowers for a friend who I have loved and loathed and tolerated in not so equal capacities. I thought four years was a long time to be living with someone and not see her through. But sometimes people have the ability of surprising even themselves by their behavior, let alone catch others off guard. It is a good thing. She had vowed never to fall in love, did anyways and now is engaged. I have vowed to fall in love, keep looking for it and am alone. It would be unfair if it wasn’t so damn predictable. You hardly get what you want. Cue a rolling stones song now.

So anyways, I bought orange and yellow roses. It took exactly seven days for them to dry out and now they are dying slowly. Can you define the smell of dried dying roses? It isn’t aromatic or decaying. It smells of longing and stale desire. It is painful. I suggested throwing them but she won’t agree. She will press them in her diary. A blank diary.

I used to have diaries too. Diaries stained with dried tears. Diaries full of words and sadness. Who sits down and pens the feelings of extreme joy when one is actually feeling it? No one. So, I burnt all of them when I left home. It was not thought through though. Maali had just lit up a bonfire of dried leaves and weeds. I just fueled it. Five years worth of sadness burnt in five minutes flat. It was cathartic.

No comments yet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: