[This is something I had written a long time back. The reasons why I am posting it here I have no clue of, maybe it is just that I have gathered enough courage to own up for something I created finally? ;)]
It is beautiful, blood red, poetic, violent, smells great and the irony of it being a rose is that it will prick you when you get around to enjoying it. Sounds familiar? You and me are doing it every day, in fact everyone has been, for ages.
Are you getting what I am saying? Of course you do, but being little liars you won't admit it. I know your kinds, the great apparition that you built up through the years just falls apart the moment you admit it. Well, I do admit it. I do it because maybe I'm sad or confused you say. What if it is? You have a problem with that?
Yes I did touch it tenderly and now you shall know why I hold such a huge grudge against it, because unlike you lucky idiots I did not even get to appreciate it properly, it crumpled in my hands and pricked me when I tried to save it. No, I promise I held it very softly. Ha, I know you are accusing me of being very rough with it. Why do I even try?
But I know I shall find it again elsewhere, it is on a desert I know. Did you say there are no roses in deserts? Well, my rose certainly is there. Why? Because I have searched for it in this arid landscape high and low and never found it again.
You cannot see it, simply because you have never seen roses. My search has only begun, I have developed tentacles of selfishness and belonging to the road I have taken to somewhere. It calls me, even it is lonely, we need each other - the road and me. we have stuck it through thick and thin....no demands, no compulsions..the feeling overwhelms me, I drop into her arms, I pass out into the journey....