Wilting flowers of a dystopian dream

Spring has been strange for the world this year. It has been unfair, unexpected, cruel and maddening. It has resulted in irreplaceable, and irreparable loss. Spring represents the rebirth of earth and was always a celebration (read here), but instead of adorning our lives with a new spirit of aliveness and joy, it has explicitly manifested the brevity of human life and existence. There are families mourning the loss of their loved ones, in the fear of losing their own lives, those who have lost their only single source on income, those who are abused at home daily in lockdown. It is a depressing time, with uncertainty failing to de-escalate.

For those fortunate ones who have never experienced the horrors of war and subsequent famine, this is certainly a novel and odd experience. Life, carefree and structured as it was is no longer. Everything has been reshuffled. Nothing is the way it was, people have changed forever.

..beaten and broken, perhaps into a better shape.

– Great Expectations, Charles Dickens.

Morbid thoughts prevail in ones mind. Death as become all the more real and relevant. The house arrest is a depression in itself, except for the lucky few living near grounds and forests able to get out for a walk, the confinement to concrete walls barely is appealing.

And yet in this dismal and uncertain time what is it in life that matters? Arent we all flowers who once in full bloom on a crisp spring morning all destined to wilt and rot away into decay and destruction? Aren’t the fluttering butterflies all around us, the wealth, the travels, the festivities, the companions, the attire, the affluence all destined to fly away from us once we have started to wilt? Will not all the blooms around us all wither into nothingless before we witness our own demise?

No butterfly sits on a wilting blossom.

Thee wining and dining, and celebrations of life, family and friends have become tales of yore. The fluttering colorful butterflies flew off away from the decaying flower bed. Spring has cast a new mold, a new skin like an exotic caterpillar brilliant turquoise and yellow sheds the coat to metamorphose into a large dark adult moth. The fancy springs we once had and the fancy springs we might have are all Utopian whims. The past and future are merely an illusion, nothing more . There is no future and there is no past, there is only one single state the present. The present determines the future. The now is all that we have, regardless of how bleak it is.

And yet somehow a resilience creeps up. If we are meant to wilt away into discoloration one day what is to be done? Should the bud accept its fate even before it has blossomed that a butterfly will not visit its radiant countenance. Should it weep in the sorrow of losing every beauty it will have? Or should it make sure to live fully since the chance it has is only a one single chance? Despite the heartbreak of desiccating the flower must live to bloom, it must show gratitude. Yes, even in such bleak conditions, it is perhaps only gratitude that is keeping us going, gratitude that things aren’t worse, if not for anything at all then merely for the fact of being alive.

The fate has already been sealed to wilt, so why not spread your petals wide and strong to taste the air, let a butterfly visit you, be open to anything that spring might offer before it’s too late. There is no past glory day, or future success, there is just the now and here a single chance for gratitude, for blossoming and for making life the best version it can be for others and for yourself. It can only be done in this moment by being grateful for life itself.

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