The Rose Garden of My Mind 

Time, in truth, is like a playful child; there is no turning back on the road destined for man. 

In the course of my life, I have learned that I am nothing, a leaf blown by the wind, yet nothing is more important than myself. 

Every time I dwell on this I become confused and taste blood, but as every dream is followed by awakening, wisdom triumphs over foolishness and I must tame my senses so as not to imperil that which my inner voice commands.

What drives me, you ask?

Life was created but man is blind.  He does not see what is before him, doesn’t comprehend what requires understanding. We do not realise that everything  we do is vain.

Thus in haste, I shall write down what I have understood and what I have failed to understand, for the strong submit humbly to the eternal; only the weak cry out and rail against fate. 

“What is love?”  Harridias, my scribe, asked, interrupting my musings.

I paused. “Love is flesh; the younger the better. No one loves only once as you’re inclined to believe. You are young, you will love a hundred,  a thousand times.

There is no eternal love, no absolute attachment to a single person. We are simply not capable of such feelings. Our body is filled wit natural juices that demand an outlet once in a while.”

And I returned to my musings.

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