Roses

Roses are red, violets are blue. But violets are violet and roses can be of any color, so why do we say that?

It seems sometimes that all the paradigms upon which this world rests are but imaginary statements made to confine our thoughts and jail our passions and cut our wings to stop us from flying high in the skies. Skies are blue but they can be red and maroon and purple in the evening at twilight, and twilight is my favorite part of the day.

When we were small I remember we were taught (not by our teachers, but by friends), how red roses meant love and yellow roses meant friendship and white roses meant peace and blue roses were so rare that “as rare a blue rose” was a simile that was taught to us in Grammar. Growing up, I realized that all of this was just a cover up. Everything surmounts to love. Whether it be black, brown, yellow, red or white, every rose symbolized only one aspect of human life. And that was love. And that was the most important thing in the world. But this was my notion in high school.

By the time I started attending college, roses meant nothing to me. They were just flowers, like the chrysanthemums and petunias and bluebells and daffodils, pretty to look at and made a good show at a nursery, but nothing more and nothing less. Obviously, love was overrated. To have a flower just for one emotion and not for the other seemed unjust. Love was injustice. Hence I should not love. My conclusions were very hand-wavy, but they seemed to fill in the void that had been existing in my life for a while now, and helped to make me happier than I was, and I thought it was important that life should be this way. I never fell in love in college again.

Alright, that was a bit of a lie. I did, but I didn’t pay much heed to it.

And somehow whenever I talk about roses, at the end of the day, it is all the same. It boils down to the same color. Black. Someone once asked me whether I named my blog such because black was my favorite color. I did not know what to say, for I did not have a favorite color until then. But I thought, maybe, this is a good thing to think about. Maybe I should have a favorite color. So I looked at all the colors in a crayon box and tried to figure out which one I liked best. I scribbled them on empty sheets and painted images. I painted the skies green and the waters pink and the houses blue and the people red. My friends laughed at it and told me what a weird person I was. When my parents saw, they said it was the prettiest drawing they had ever seen. And that made me happy, because my parents liked it and if your parents like something it means that is good and you should therefore love your parents because they love you too.

What about the color, you ask? Well yes, I did figure out my favorite color. I’ll tell you about it in my next post.

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