The flower is a peculiar thing, the flower.
All through civilisations, it was revered, personified, legend-arised, scandalosed ..and yet, brutalised all the same.
We do take beauty and not let it be, as advised by some lofty and virtuous philosopher. We cut it at it’s most prime, and use it, before that, selling it to the highest bidder, scrutized, shucked away for the minutiae of defects ..shudder!
..then, she shuck it away, after it’s use has been expired. How legendary.
Which rose, of all the rose …we ponder upon the Little Prince’s sense of longing, piercing his heart, realising that in the so called same-ness of it all, it is still not, for his efforts and devotions has made THAT rose, his rose, not the other roses.
In the end, the rose, as in the movie, said something along the lines of ‘I will always be in your heart, with you …’
That rose, was not meant to live forever, albeit the showers, the care and love ..it is, a mere rose. Distinct, but all the same.
Through the wreckage, we see the Little Prince emerged with great awakening, of love and embracing what life has to offer, even after everything you cherished seems to wither away, and die.
The Bolshevicks and peeps posing as revolutioners, killed a lot of people in the nam eof a new world order. Nobilities, royalties. The same with the last and lost keratons in Indonesia. One Stanford Raffles literally duped one Sultan of Bentan and left his aka Survivor the series, without any telecast, alone on island, never to beheard of again. Mercy from them?
To have lived, to suffer and known how to curve a smile in this life, is a great accomplishment. Because life is great misery to some but in embracing them, some may emerge like phoenixes and breathe greatness into the new generations to come.
For some who has tasted luxury, parting, robbed of them in a mere blink of an eye, like the emigres of Russia, for instance is about adjusting and surviving in a new world, cherishing that life itself, every day, is a miracle. Life must be hard for any number of them, but coping and turning a new leaf again and again, is a story of bravery.
For some, it was about time. The wretchedness of the old system must be torn down. After all, corruption was rampant, cronyism amd nepotism buoyant..as in all system in the world ..
The fate that some of them natives Russian had to go through through the changing climates is still a great mystery, because, it was just a summary …not everyone was deemed worthy enough to be enshrined in a book. Alas, the publishers were ever so fickle.
Not just the Russ’. The old Indonesia, before there was Indonesia, the old Champa, Kemboja, and also Pattani ..were hunted like god damn preys ..not all of them were courageous, some were flawed, worthy of being flayed ..by words for their spineless acts and decisions alone, but during those changing and turbulent times, there were many who fell down, fighting, retreating and then some more, without any hope of of seeing the cloud lifted to their cause. Many died. Many heroes were nameless.
Many flowers were stepped onto, crushed and flayed, innocently.
So that is meant for those times, to think that we merely survived those brutal times by mere years, is a slip of luck. Too bad our ancestors had to go through it, yeah ..some were out cold, body never founded, loss but cherished in some memories.
It is flowers that maybe had kept many of these memories, the brutality, the unhingeness of it all, maybe the Orang Asli, by listening to the sad flowers’ songs, know more about these tales, than us, to think we tirelessly navigated the uncharted oceans, pesky and dangerous unknown world of the internet, day in and day out. We think we know it all, that they are soo backward. In fact, they are the flowers of our land. Keepers of the promises, holder of faith, if only we take solace and not unhand them, infringe upon them, marginalise them, and let them tail behind.
At least, we didn’t make them like the worse of Indians in America or Australia ..I dunnow ..i who dunnow what happiness is, felt sadness for example when I remember the dot paintings of the Australian paintere. Divine, meticulous and really putting one in his or her own place. Humbling.
I dunnow Mattise, Money or care much of Picasso, but I thoughthe dot painings are already the art that I wanted to see all my life. I was not brought up burgouise, the nobility upbringing, schooled at Eton, familiarising all too soon with what great works are ..
I am no great fan of painting or art per se, but when I see the dot paintings, even with my scratchable art k ow how, I was teary ..I was moved. What devilry or withcraft may this be, one shudders, yet again ..
Art, shuddere for no reason, seems snobbish. But I hail the supposed meaning of it that a great art lets the viewer or the reader see something in him, aka as speaks to him/her ..
I believed, at times, not artsy myself ..I was art-sied, unwillingly..it was such a rush ..a whirwind ..and then you’re there, scratching yiur head asking, what just heppen ..
Art-sied, you cheeky little art pieces. How dare you sneek into my utmost damaged self and seems to want to reach out, coaxing it to breathe, to live, to speak
Shudder. The kidnapper.
Pix credit to annatomix, ThisisColassal