I had a dream once.
One that consisted of butterflies swarming around a chain of daisies. There were lilacs and daffodils blooming high in a field that danced with the summer wind. Their petals laughed at the sun, seeming to cry out for its warmth, for their growth.
It was a pleasant dream, one that washed over me and made me calm even in slumber. I had no idea what spurred on the dream, but no one really does.
What consist of dreams?
What makes us dream of such pleasant things?
What makes us reach and try to pluck those flowers only for them to grow old and withered. For that once sweet aroma to turn into something putrid and sour.
There were thorns adorning my hand, velvety green thistles plucking the skin. There was crimson there, and no matter how much it spilled. No matter how much my heart willed me to stop, my soul crying out for remorse for those infantile clusters, I couldn’t yet stop myself from plucking each one from the soil it had grew from.
Temptation is a savory form of excitement. We can break things down and let them whither away, all the while smiling not knowing that snake is getting ready to bite you.
Once you are bitten and the apple turns raw, when there are no more flowers left to pick. The only thing we are left with is anguish.
Seduction is a fickle friend.
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