I went into the garden this morning in search of flowers to decorate my room. I navigated through the rainbow of petals, pulled out my craft scissors with dried glue caked on the dull blades, and selected a plentiful bush of orange poppies. Abruptly, a breeze of my own guilt swept over me as I sliced through the stem of a beautiful flower. Am I the only one who feels like I am taking a life when I cut flowers? Maybe it was a result of my emotional state this week, but it truly felt like I was making small cuts into my heart each time I added another flower to my bouquet. Their green stems were so plump and bright, but now, because of my own selfish desires, I get to watch as they wither and die. I apologetically filled a small glass vase with water, prolonging their death. Maybe this is why people buy store-bought flowers. They get to experience their beauty, without the guilt of ending it. I wonder if wildflowers envy the picked flowers. Do they feel useless if their beauty isn’t displayed on windowsills or decorating dining room tables? Or do they simply enjoy existing?
