A bouquet in the bin

I saw a bouquet of flowers in the rubbish bin.

The flowers appeared to be few days’ old and the leaves were barely hanging on. Despite the lack of vigour, the vibrant colour stood out from the rest of its content and caught my eye. I stopped and stared at the flowers for a while as it slowly dawned on me. I wasn’t looking at something as it is, but this frail life dissipate in front of me as the time progresses. I took in a deep breath, hoping that I could pick up that floral scent, before that redolence was gone for good. But, I can’t tell what it was, what it is, and what it will be. There was nothing that could possibly provide an answer to my questions.

Before I even realised how long I was standing there, I walked away instinctively.

As time leaves its trail over our physical self, it crumbles and it falls. None will be escaping the concept of dystrophy, and none will be enjoying the sense of immortality. But, why should one be simply disregarded for its age, for its experience, and for its participation in the society? Why must one be judged solely for its contribution to the greater good? Does the existence really mean nothing at all when it comes to an end. Questions eventually led to more questions. And, unknowingly to my conscious mind, I was already few hundred metres away from the scene.

I turned and looked back, trying to see it once again but to no avail. It seemed that no one thinks that it was even worth mentioning to begin with. Why do I need to walk away actually? Am I subjected to the projection of values and beliefs of the society? Was I the same, or are we all the same to begin with? Am I overestimating our differences and downplaying our similarities?

Sometimes, I just can’t help but wonder: am I thinking too much? Why does it even matter?

When I stumbled upon “The Art of Travel” by Alain de Botton, there was a paragraph that was particularly appealing to me. For he, was attracted by a simple red front door at a foreign country and long to live there for the rest of his life. These details maybe minute, but if we were to condemn ourselves for these concerns is to ignore how rich in meaning details may be, he argued. It originates from a novel concept and may strike different chords that resonate with particular someone.

So, does it really matter if I linger over a bouquet of flower, intentionally or not, being placed in the rubbish bin?

It may not be significant, but it does paint the larger picture of a society.

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