You once picked up a rose from a full, blooming garden. It had a château of thorns—sharp and witty—unlike the daisies. When you placed it inside a beautiful golden dome of your own, the rose became somewhat bedazzled. “What a charming move by a minimalist at heart,” it thought.
As the rose grew, however, the thorns did not—some were scraped away by your tenderness, while others withered out of goodwill. It transformed into a soft, daisy-like stem, but it didn’t cry. Everything felt pure even if a little painful. No soul in the household ached for those old, malicious thorns.
But while the flower forgot, the garden did not. They called the lifeless thorns a masquerade, screaming “Evil!” with their judging eyes. “The wicked of the garden should be uprooted!” In their minds, a rose without thorns was nothing good. Everyone in the province wanted the same—except for two.
Try as they might, there was nothing else that could be done. You had cut the connecting roots gently, and all that was left to scream was, “You ought not to!” The leaves might pitch another idea, while the pine trees might act as a sharp surrogate—but the garden understood. It was already counting on another sprout.
When you picked up that rose from the full, blooming garden, its petals were red, almost crimson. It was ready to shine for you, change shade for you, and even lose its petals for you. But you never let it. “What a beautiful rose as it is,” you always thought.
And always have.
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