Tuesday, April 07, 2015

Pretty. Doomed. But still pretty.

An invitation to tiptoe
London, ON
April 2015
Flowers, at least in their commercial, buy-them-on-the-way-home form, don't represent the most logical of purchases. Even while they sit in their refrigerated-display-case perfection, they're dying a slow death. They've already been cut from whence they grew, and the vibrant colours, textures and scents that define their present stand in stark contrast to the shrivelled Miss Havisham-ish reality that they will soon become.

That's right, folks, I'm such a romantic, already pondering the dark side before it's even had a chance to show itself.

And yet, I can't look away. And I can't resist the occasional seemingly irrational urge to pull out my wallet and detour through the florist shop as I pack up the groceries or otherwise finish off an errand and point myself toward home.

Why buy something that'll be garden fodder within days? Because for the blink of time that they're at their peak, they have value that extends far beyond the physical. Because they send a message. That you cared enough to do something illogical. That you cared, period.

I don't buy flowers often - at least not as often as I probably should. But when I do, the feeling of having someone worth bringing them home to is priceless.

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