Roses are some of the most
symbolic things on this planet. As we all know, they're thought of as a
sign of love, but there's so much more to it than that. Before roses
bloom, they are one of the ugliest plants imaginable, dark, thorny, and utterly
depressing. Then they blossom, and suddenly they're beautiful. Red,
pink, yellow, or even black, they are perhaps even more beautiful because one
had to wait. Like so many things born from pain, they are all the more
desirable for it.
Roses grow on bushes or vines. They
are never alone. Like people, they take their strength from one another,
from closeness. If you cut a rose from the others, it will die. Even
if you put it in water and sunlight, even if you give it lots of plant food, it
begins to die the very moment it is pulled from its home.
They are all different colors. Some
are pink, and they always seem innocent. Some are white and pure. Some
are yellow, and aren't they the happiest thing you ever did see? Some, like the one below, are
brightest red, all flashy and eye-catching. Some are black, tragically
beautiful. And some, perhaps the most famous, are dark red, like blood. They
seem to have a depth to them, a meaning beyond what can be seen. They are
beautiful and yet flawed, but the flaws themselves add to the beauty.
It is these, these fragile,
painful, dangerous, tough, wild, flawed, beautiful, delicate things that we use
to symbolize love. It seems to me
that they are really a symbol for humanity, and maybe even for life itself.
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