Every time I changed social circles, jobs, gyms, or churches, you were there, misnamed yet unmistakable. “Rose,” I called you, seeing you bloom amid invisible thorns—defences against predators perceived only by my own eyes, much like the camellia that you are.
You attracted me, I won’t deny it. I tried to stay away, yet inevitably, I was drawn in, compelled to be intoxicated by your fragrance, one devoid of the prickly defences I imagined around you.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen any “Rose,” but that’s okay; I live in a garden now. The flower I see most often knows how to capture my particular interest. Her unique fragrance clouds my judgment, for better or worse, and that’s perfectly fine. This “bee” seeks peace, harmony, and vitality, yet the monotony of a daisy does not suffice in the long run, and the fleeting thrill of a sundew is but a short-lived excitement, of which I’ve had my fair share. Jars of honey, now safely stored in the recesses of my memory, are to be used with caution—this stuff can be overpowering.
Cactus flowers are my preference now. No offence, “Rose,” or should I say, “Camellia”? My tastes are seasonal, like everything else. I might see you again, or not, nobody knows. One thing I know is that I will never leave my garden, nor will I stop seeing thorns where none exist to protect myself from myself. Well, trying to.