Smell the Flowers

Peace and calm awaits as you take a walk in the garden. Nature's finest beckons as you caress the leaves of plants you pass by. Then, you see her. Dazzling, vibrant and beautiful. She may be surrounded by prickly thorns, protecting her like the king's guard. And to your eyes, she is unreachable, but your heart tells you to go nonetheless. You reach out to touch her, but the thorns pierce your skin. The pain heightens your senses, but you will yourself to bear the pain, you coax yourself to keep moving forward – to reach that goal. To reach her. You brave 10, 15, 20 more thorns. It hurts as you sweat under the heat of the sun. Finally, you do reach her. In your longing and in your weariness, you stop and just – just marvel at her beauty.

You gaze at her even as the sun scorches your back and your skin. In your mind you have already touched her. But you know that it would be a crime against nature to pluck her away from the one that nourished her into being. So then, you simply stop and smell the rose. New sensations from your olfactory senses fill your being with grace and joy. You knew that she could give you all those. Your lungs are filled with her essence and your self is filled with an epiphany of living. The smell of a rose coupled with the freshness of morning dew drops stuns you, nay, brings you to an ecstatic moment of calm. But you are a smoker.

Your lungs are a desolate battlefield, filled with scars and scorches, your mind is clouded and your ability to grasp the olfactory essence of a rose is hindered as many thousands of your nerves have been flayed and beaten by nicotine and hundred or so chemicals. Would you walk away from the rose upon realizing this truth? Having had the realization that you cannot appreciate it, you despair and just gaze at it. You sit down and watch and wait for a miracle to happen. You try to smell it again, this time, mustering with all your strength to breathe in stronger to try to suck in what fragrance you could. Still nothing. A tear makes it way down your cheek, as you live with the truth of your inadequate being. You wipe it away with your clenched fist as your body begins to shudder uncontrollably at the prospect of not being able to experience what she offers. Will this be your story? – – – –

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Creative Commons Image via Flickr

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