76: Bloom (drabble)
I suppose the heart can be closely compared with the flower. In its early stages, it lies dormant, inactive, unconscious. Nothing to do, nothing to feel, nothing to speak of.
After some time, it will awaken, perhaps slowly, with a blurry vision and blurry motives. Pale, fragile, vulnerable.
Time passes, and so the heart and the flower grow. Exposed to the elements, wandering about, and so on.
Then something will happen. Perhaps an unforeseen event which happens unexpectedly, or not unexpectedly. Spring, I suppose. The heart blooms like a flower, matured, beautiful, ready, exposed. The heart is ready to love, willing to share love, willing to give, willing to get, happy.
Then the summer, a whirlwind affair, hot, passionate, wild. Then the autumn, the sparks of the summer having faded, and so have the memories. Leaves turn from bright young green to wise oranges, brown, golds, the ageing of nature. The heart is broken by the sudden change. Shattered beyond comprehension, the process is irreversible. It will never be the same again. Mourning, wilting, dying, and finally, accepting. In the night, like some flowers, the heart will shut itself away and dream of memories that are long gone and reminisce of good times, young times.
Finally, the winter. The heart beats one last time, and comes to an abrupt halt. Now nothing can save it. And now the flower is dead, decomposed with the humus of the forest floor, and the cycle will begin again, with a new story of a different heart and a different flower.