Half of western art history is just jesus-oriented. I'm so bored.
The flower has soft petals and sits neatly in a row. There are red ones and purple ones and orange ones just the same. There are tall ones and short ones and dead ones all the same. But the one that reeks of mirth and vigor has been there for months. The dirt around it still packs a moist bump in the earth. The sun beams down on it. I watch as my hand scrapes the surface and seizes it, tearing it from its roots as it falls limp. I thought I would enjoy it better from a glass vase, but now I realize I should have just admired it as it was. Attempting to shove the broken end of the stem back into the empty soil is futile. From this point on, the flower only wilts, it will never grow again, yet I ram it back into the ground just to see it as it once stood. But now it's not the same.
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