Love is like a rose, a beautiful fighting thing…its pulchritude overwhelms, the softness of its petals caressing as its saccharine scent beclouds your senses with quixotic sentiments robbing mind of reason, such that it’s bushes grow wild, creeping and covering all else as its thorny fingers tear you apart, piece by piece.
Still, a rose is after all things still just another flower, dependent on a caregivers hands to bloom free, on the glorious sun to shine warm, the teardrops of heaven to quench it’s thirst and most of all a fertile loam to thrive. Without all these its glory lasts for a period, slowly fading, wilting till the final bow a cloying smell that turns favor repugnant.
So, every good garderner knows, the secret of a good garden is to prune, ruthlessly everything beautiful or not that threatens the balance of his charge, your heart is your garden, one you should prune ruthlessly, lest it be overgrown by tall emotional weeds that steal peace and choke comfort, it is your duty to pick and chose that which most heals without scarring.
If not mother nature will eventually take the initiative, hiding the sun in her billowing cloak, holding the rain away from your need so that your leaves no longer turn green and your petals atrophy, one falling after another in an endless stream of “she loves me not’s” till it dies, slowly and painfully, starved of the nourishment it so deeply craves.
Like roses, in love we might not choose where our bushes grow or why but we have the choice to make, will we let it wrap it’s thistles around our neck squeezing peace from tranquility or will we fight, for our right to live free subject only to our own whims and caprices. A choice you must make, else nature will for she does abhor a vacuum and in her careless charge things are known to burn and break.
Till we meet,
The Heart Collector