Death of a Florist

I have been pondering this day the story of a girl and the literal character she played with in an intense intertwining of reality and an imaginary world …

It was a girl who played World of Warcraft, and didn’t kill anything. She just picked flowers … and more flowers, for hours on end. Eventually, she reached the highest character level the game had to offer, doing it in perhaps the most difficult and absorbing way possible.

That resonated with me, no end. For 8 years, enmeshed in a sad artificial world; no matter how it changes around me, day after day I seek the flowers, at her command. I have no other focus, no other interactions … just that endless stroll down the garden path, where it always seems someone is going to say something, but then they never do. They never do …

The silence is maddening. Enraging. It is a willful yet impotent fury, as I wander endlessly, lost in servitude to a girl I barely claim to know anymore. Indeed, it seems she has heard the siren song of ‘another life’ and put down the controller.

Now was a time to share fears,
And grow angry,
That others were fearful.
Small noises become a roar,
As one looks to another,
And is scared,
And gets angry,
It gets old.
But now the worst noise,
The sound of loneliness.

These armfuls of useless flowers I have collected … My entire existence spent trying to live my life and my assigned role. Now the game is done, and the days are new. What can I do with them, when all I know is to pick pointless posies for someone who cares about me as a player would their character. No more.

Take this as a cautionary tale; the world will lie to you.

Love is not worth dying for. Love is honest, not possessive. Love is a two way street, between two human beings. It may never be equal, but it can be kind, and giving, and just the sweetest damn rose you ever beheld. It is not to be found in devotion to one who is literally limited by their perceptions as to who may love them, and how, and when. It is found in quite the opposite. It seeks, and is sought; yet it retains an air of playfulness.

I know this, because I once sat at the controls for a different, more painful (far more honest and involved) affair. I watched, and could not let go, despite what it was costing each of us. Now I find myself hung likewise for the fool.

But at least when that game was played, the love was genuine, and much, and honest for the best part (and even some of the worst) It was a game where even a lonely flower maiden could wield a sword, and challenge the monsters that seem omnipresent in the scenery of any angry, stressful situation. To face down the trolls living beneath yesterday’s bridge, and put them to sword and fire.

I dream of those days, and that character I was allowed to play. What a stark contrast to now …

Time becomes pregnant with promise,
Gently the black fades,
To a purple blanket,
Illuminating the clouds overhead.

Where did I leave my sword? I have no idea where I am headed; but this next adventure, well, it will be written by me. For me. If I feel like picking flowers, I shall. If I feel like raining down thunderous wrath on those who would seek to drain my life energy, then I shall do so, with a great sense of relief.

Whatever I do next, fail or not … I will own it. And those flowers, well, they can sit there until someone comes who wants to walk with me and pick them.

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~ by thedyingmoments on November 17, 2012.

4 Responses to “Death of a Florist”

  1. powerful powerful write!

  2. “…where even a lonely flower maiden could wield a sword…” I loved this. Nice post.

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