I dreamt once, of the most beautiful rose that could ever exist. The rose was the life of a man. The tinest petal,the triumps in his life, his loves, his joys, the very essense of his being. The thorns his defences, his cold shell, his distaste that he diplays toward the world. The stem, the ongoing thread in which the rose grew which was also true of the man. The tinest detail lends to the beauty and sting of this rose. All the pain, the loves, the hates, the experiences, the hopes, and the dreams all contained inside the perfest red rose which grew on.
The question left to me during my dream was, is plucking the rose to enjoy the temporary beauty and forgoing all that could be, to bathe in its beautiful glow in one passing moment, was that the moment of its greatest beauty, the point in which it is fullest? Or is it the continued regrowth of the rose, the changes from now to its end, the true life and the full existence to behold? I did not have the answer. There also were some big breasted women dressed as schoolgirls, with their hair in pigtails.