patterns


Isn't it true how we study a bud of a rose, so eagerly awaiting it's unfolding, singing our praises with oohing and awing, so willingly tending to it's every leaf, ever anticipating it's blooming because we believe in what we cannot see; it will become a full and lovely thing. When it blooms in all its glory we take pride. How then does such a beautiful thing fade; slowly, slowly, slowly we look past it all, forgetting the anticipated efforts, the desire for such loveliness and the pride in what we've nurtured. Until one day we notice something amiss, and again we yearn, with much less than a second thought, for that fullness and beauty; a fullness and beauty that was never really ours.

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