There is a dead rose in my diary, dark red petals curling black, faint fragrance drifting across the yellowing pages. The rose is almost six years old, and it's been dead for almost two. Yet it's ghost still lingers, still haunts me. It's fragrance (odour?) permeates through my room, my books, my bed, my heart, my mind, my life. The breeze scatters the petals, but they always come back here to rest, to haunt me. The rose is dead, but it's ghost still has sharp thorns. I try to hold it sometimes, but all I do is end up bleeding. I try to throw it away sometimes (everyone says I must), but the ghost is tenacious, it doesn't let me go. (Or is it me that doesn't let it go?)
It seems as if my life is tied to that rose, that it is my anchor, that if i let it go, everything I am, all I ever hope to be, everything will crumble, will scatter and drift away. How do I then, let that rose go? How do I throw away what I have always imagined to be my life? How do I let me, go?
---------
I tried. I tried to hold the rose again. I tried to revive the dead. And for a moment, it seemed it worked. Oh, it was beautiful. The old warmth, the old fragrance, the old feeling, that same cocoon--it was back. And you know the best thing? It wasn't a vague shadowy imprint of what the rose used to be--it was the same. I could almost see it. The blackness of the petals receding, the colour blooming again, the post-rain freshly washed world again. All the same. Rewind. Erase. Play.
But as they say, nothing good ever came out of necromancy. Yes, it all came back--for a time. It all went away too. And I bled. Again. Only, this time. It was worse. SO much worse. NOW the haunting? Much MUCH worse. Coupled with the WHY? And I try to analyze it all. Was it all just in my head? Did I just imagine it? I know I didn't. So. Which was it? Revival? Or the ghost just taking a more solid form for a bit?
And then I realize. It doesn't matter. I tried. With the ghost having haunted me for so long, I HAD to try. The minute it took a vaguely corporeal form, it was inevitable. At some level, I know. That rose. It will always be there. I cannot throw it away. It's a part of me, of who I am. So I don't regret it. Which is good.
BUT. That one last time, one last try--it's over.
---------
So. Dear Dead Rose,
I'll always treasure you. Yes, I admit it, I miss you. One part of me STILL wants you to revive. But I'm done mourning you. It's time to put the ghost of you to rest. Finally. Rest in peace.
-R
