Life is a flower once cut its destiny is marked, the withering… such is every area of our existence the metaphysical subtlety of destiny, death, and certainly love. Broken connections cut and bruised, the being of whims and terrible choices, the regret comes linked to every decision you get to take conscious of it or not ultimately gets to be there. Disappointment, an inconstant constant, paradoxically speaking, is usually obtained by placing trust in what perhaps obviously is not so. The flowers are full of loneliness when they are cut with naivety they have the certainty of thinking that their petals will be with them but once the destiny begins with pain they realize that their petals will not be there in the future, the cut begins with a rough, sudden sensation, perhaps unexpected but surely painful. The flower is degrading its hope even though it sees divine and illuminated in its body gives in criticism the others, it is with clarity that it will wither soon ephemeral such reflection is of our life a clear mirror of the natural law of things. Then comes the anguish of obviousness and are exuberance begins what such could be called death, the decomposition of the mortal physics of being all in all being. The flower is no longer beauty or life, the essence of its nectar vanished in time, awaiting the longing for its presence. It remains of it the slight illusion that from its already withered body something beautiful is reborn, with young essence strengthened perhaps that has the luck of not being cut could then last longer than the premature.
