If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I would have a garden.

A garden, comprised of a plot of land, earth scorched and barren. A garden where the only source of life would be indicated by those long, shriveled stalks. Some stalks green, some stalks brown. All stalks ugly, useless, their only purpose to be forgotten, removed. People ask me, why do I keep this garden? Well, you can’t control what sprouts. They appear without being asked, without being welcomed, without being wanted. And yet, it takes a lot more effort to remove them than it takes for them to grow. So I toil, day in and day out. Toil endlessly. On some days it is easier, fewer appear. Other days it is harder, more appear with a vengeance, choking what soil remains that could harbor new life. It is on those days that I question myself, whether I would remain in my garden forever, whether all I would be able to ever see again would be those hideous, unlovely stems, bespeckled with thorns and spines. Where the garden had once held the buds of promised beauty was a lie; all were replaced when they came up. When they came, the soil dried and cracked. What were my flowers, my hopes, my dreams, the beauty that I saw, died. When I had finally been forced to see the flowers, my precious flowers, for what they really were.