I look at my flower: dead and wilting. I cant find the time to care for it when i have so much nothing to do already; knowing it regrows in 36 days anyways when it goes to seed again. I just don't have it in me to care for it and have it blooming and beautiful. Its few remaining petals hang in a pitifully effortless sway of faded colour, its sickly, green centre a gross memory of its former golden glow. Everyday it dies more, whether i pay attention or not - and I simply can't bother. Even if I did, the outcome would stay the same. The most beautiful flower, and the least bearable mess of failed roots will both turn to ashes bearing seeds with potential worth nurturing. Knowing this, I can't bother with my dying flower.
I wish my flower was beautiful and lively. Everyday I see every single one of the most beautiful flowers eyesight has to offer. I smell the most addicting fragrances - relieving rose, lax lavenders, jaded jasmines and solemn sandalwoods - each leaving a scar on my nose so as to upturn it at my own flower no matter its scent. I just can't be bothered. Impatient indigos, unbothered umbras and lax lime hues all catch the focus of my eyes, as I see my flower in my head: its beauty as it was before; My body unmoving in acting in ways in favor of returning to that fruitful state of being.
For my flower will eventually return to seed. So it doesn’t matter. This painful sight and abhorrent stench only serve as a personal prison until my next chance. It doesnt matter how many petals or tears fall. Because only so many can fall in 36 days.