The legend says that there was once a rose that used to grow every night in the top of a rocky hill. It was said to grant immortality to those that would drink of its serum. However, the black rose was surrounded by thousands of thorn filled trees and whoever unlucky enough to touch one would die instantly. Because of the risk, no one dared venture into the realms of the black rose. Therefore... every night the rose grew, and every night it withered away; never gifting anyone with its wondrous treasure. And it would be destined to remain that way... for all eternity. Dying alone, giving no one the gift of immortality.
The story itself has many lessons to it, the most important, for me, being: we can only grasp the things we desire the most, when we take a risk worthy of having them.
Regardless of anything else, I guess we all think of ourselves as Black Roses once in a lifetime. There's always something we're dying to give, but that no one dares.... 'conquer'? There's always a part of us that awakens just to satisfy one specific need, but immediately dies if that need is not take care of. But we're not roses and we certainly not part of a fairy tale.
I can't describe the feeling itself. I can identify with that rose almost perfectly. There's something within me that was born for a specific task. However, it never seems to accomplish its true mission, because it keeps dying just like it was born. Just like that... I wait endlessly, and maybe I'm doomed to be like that rose, and I'll wait for all eternity. I know my situation, and I know I'm not an easy person. Yes... I can easily imagine all those thorn surrounding me, and I'm not unfair enough to ask anyone to look beyond.
There are two sides to me. One of them is just that black rose, that dies never having given anything to anyone. The other side is the side I show the world: the one that's not corrupted or tainted, a picture of ice and indifference. That side is just a mask. It probably represents the thorns... it will never allow anyone beyond it. The other side is sleeping deep within me, never talking, silently being born and dying, silently withering away, unnoticed.
Maybe that's the way it's meant to be. It doesn't matter, does it?
Maybe the rose is just meant to be a rose, never to be touched, never to be savoured...
Then again... what we least is expect, is what we end becoming.
The story itself has many lessons to it, the most important, for me, being: we can only grasp the things we desire the most, when we take a risk worthy of having them.
Regardless of anything else, I guess we all think of ourselves as Black Roses once in a lifetime. There's always something we're dying to give, but that no one dares.... 'conquer'? There's always a part of us that awakens just to satisfy one specific need, but immediately dies if that need is not take care of. But we're not roses and we certainly not part of a fairy tale.
I can't describe the feeling itself. I can identify with that rose almost perfectly. There's something within me that was born for a specific task. However, it never seems to accomplish its true mission, because it keeps dying just like it was born. Just like that... I wait endlessly, and maybe I'm doomed to be like that rose, and I'll wait for all eternity. I know my situation, and I know I'm not an easy person. Yes... I can easily imagine all those thorn surrounding me, and I'm not unfair enough to ask anyone to look beyond.
There are two sides to me. One of them is just that black rose, that dies never having given anything to anyone. The other side is the side I show the world: the one that's not corrupted or tainted, a picture of ice and indifference. That side is just a mask. It probably represents the thorns... it will never allow anyone beyond it. The other side is sleeping deep within me, never talking, silently being born and dying, silently withering away, unnoticed.
Maybe that's the way it's meant to be. It doesn't matter, does it?
Maybe the rose is just meant to be a rose, never to be touched, never to be savoured...
Then again... what we least is expect, is what we end becoming.
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