I smell flowers. They cut through my thoughts and bring the clarity I crave. Flowers are complex - their growth, their need for loving and nurturing. The care I take is what someone else receives. I am paid in soft sighs and bright eyes that I never see, a loved one presenting my work combined with theirs; their thoughts, their love, their care. Birthdays, anniversaries, congratulations. Get better soon. I was just thinking of you, and I know you wish you had a rose garden, so Iâ€™ve brought you something to inspire you like you inspire me. I write my love poems with daffodils, chrysanthemums, sweet peas and birds of paradise. She is the sun and I turn towards her for light. I prefer middles over beginnings and ends. I never thought I would feel the same way about my days as I do about fictional charactersâ€™. There are the same builds, crescendos and lulls as a narrative. They are both tangible in my hands. Both experiences are uniquely my own. Just like someone elseâ€™s complex imagined adventure, I do not know where my own will take me, but I am delighted. I try things that are a little harder. I pick a novel gathering dust that I was never interested in before, but deserves a chance. I plant a seed, not a seedling. I go out on a limb, and she responds in kind. My life is a tangled web of chances, failures and triumphs. When flowers wilt, they are pressed into pages. Two parts of my life, two experiences that bookmark my days, come together. I step around the coffee table books stacked on one another, because it was the way my mother taught me. The more pressure, the more beautiful the end result will be.
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