white rose

I picked out a bundle of white roses today.  I usually have no particular sentiments towards flowers but somehow these were a kind that captures and mesmerizes you; I couldn't help my instantaneous affinity.  They are beautiful.  The petals are fragile, barely holding, but the way they glisten through the droplets, it succumbs you entirely.  The way they bend, sighing as if closing their eyes.   I held each stem, and felt a surge of sorrow swallow me.  I knew the roses were going to die very soon.  And I was afraid of their impending, inevitable death.  Afraid of losing, oddly losing something so trivial, something that isn't even mine to begin with.  Like the ten baht helium balloon I accidentally let go when I was a little less than ten, or the first car my mother owned, or the stray black cat waiting at my doorstep.  I shed tears for them as if they were my own kin.  As if I lost someone I dearly loved.  I grieve, mourn, and move on.  And I have no more emotional attachments thereafter.  None.  I still remember each memory vividly when I look back at my fondness and stupidity.  But you know what they say, life goes on.  Mortality is only ever so kind.  So you see my problem with these roses.  I want them to cling to life, I want to prolong their purity but they are already starting to stain from the suffocating grasp of the air.  They are tainted brown.  Their heads hang low, drooping down to the ground.  They dare not look me in the eye for they know very well how softly but suddenly forever can fall.