Circle of Vice

December 20, 2017
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In the place where so many things came together and so many things fell apart, I am yet again on the outside. There is a breeze though, and the weather is mild, so I smile. I can appreciate the structure for what it was, what it is, and what it continues to be. This formative edifice with its precisely laid bricks and rigid rebar foundations was but a necessary stage. It is always necessary to be taught the rules, as ridiculous as they may be, for order cannot be broken if it is not first known.
The spring of this past year brought with it more growth than simply the buds of life beginning to bloom. This past spring was not exactly a coming of age, that much is evident now. For, fresh out of an institution it is foolish to expect the immediate commencement of growth. Rather, the first step must be to break down the regimented lifestyle.
The summer of this past year was much the same as the spring. For the flowers that shoot their timid tendrils through the soil in the beginning of the year grow ever stronger through the warm months. With sun and all the freedom to expand, flowers inevitably take advantage of the sustenance they are given. And I surely provided those corrupted blooms with ample support. Each day when the sun would break through the grey dawn I would set to work nurturing this garden of mine.
In the fall, when their brilliant hues began to fade and their flowers wilted further towards the Earth, I forgot the cycle of life. Frantically overwatering my plants in the hopes that they would bloom again as they had in the summer was a vain attempt to save them from an inevitable fate. Yet when the first frost came, I found myself shining a flashlight on their wiry stems in hopes of providing what the sun once did. But I am not the sun. In fact, if I were to identify with any celestial body it would not be the sun. Nor even would I relate to the moon, though it cuts so forcefully through the darkness, it is still a reflection of the sun.
It is winter now. The sun sets earlier during this time of year and allows the moon supreme power. And while the moon tries its best to inject its rays into plants and onlookers alike, it cannot compare to the power of the unseen. So here I stand in this withered garden, my eyes, hungry for the color that once lived there, now weep for my lost buds. How beautiful they were! How exquisitely they distracted from what is above. Even in death they captivated me and held me where I squatted with a watering can filled with solid ice.
Vices have a way of appearing beautiful to the one who perpetuates their existence. They called out for water to fuel their magenta petals and I listened too intently to their cries. Though it took all my strength to lift the watering can each day, it seemed okay to sacrifice my own health so something else could elongate its roots. Something resonates within me when I hear I cry for help, but to help others grow, it is not necessary to break your own back. Even if these flowers beat the odds and flourished 365 days of the year, I could no longer feed them. My back had grown tired and I yearned to sleep past dawn without a care for how my crops are coming along. And so I was able to muster up the strength to stand among their frail corpses and mumble a softly spoken prayer for new life.

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