While roaming in the graveyard people call garden at night, I noticed him sitting on a bench. He smiled at me and without even saying a word, offered me a seat next to him. We kept on observing the stars and the flowers; alive and dead.
“What happens when flowers die?” I asked him out of blue.
He looked at me, his eyes shining brighter than the stars, as he parted his lips to speak, I noticed his sharp jawlines, this man is really beautiful!
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes, I do.”
He pulled something out from his pocket and handed me something. I held it gently. Before I could ask him anything, he said, “It’s a seed of love, it’s rare.” and went.
I looked at the seed. It was raw, beautiful and tempting.
Next day, I buried the seed in the damp soil of my emotions. I watered it everyday, fertilized it with faith, belief and vulnerability.
With a lot of patience and time, the plant grew. It had beautiful buds. I named them Kindness, Compassion, Joy and Equanimity respectively. The buds grew, grew more and turned into alluring flowers.
I kept on waiting for him to come back and pluck the flowers out, but he didn’t come back.
One day, my heart witnessed the murder, the flowers died. I smelt the pleasantly despondent malodour of despair, hoping for some probability of ghost sightings.
As time passed;
the smell started fading away, the longings died as well. I had plucked out all the buds and leaves off my heart. I had buried the dead flowers and leaves into the desolated land I discovered inside me. I, later on, build a wall in my heart. The wall was made up of restrained cement, cold and barren enough to not let any new seed grow again.
Now, I know what happens when flowers die. They become prickles.