• ronak_bafna 10w

    She was a hoarder of infinite thoughts and countless emotions. She firmly believed that people should live by moments and not days. Since moments are nothing but a collection of memories, she wouldn't let a single memory leave her mind. The others deemed it impossible, but she had a trick to do the impossible. She would simply materialize her memories by assigning them to everyday objects and hoard them. Her house was a mess, but also, an ocean of metaphors.
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    In between the pages, 193 and 194 of John Green's "The fault in our stars" was one such metaphor. A metaphor, known to her and nobody else. Hazel Grace and Augustus Waters were entrusted with the task of safeguarding it at all times. But they couldn't stop me from noticing it.
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    It was a Rose. The stem was dry and the flower had withered. It was difficult to differentiate the leaves from the petals. Everything looked the same - sapless, juiceless and black.
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    It was once red, she says.
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    Admiring its tragic beauty, I succumb to silence. But she notices a thousand questions in my eyes and decides to weigh it.
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    Dead flowers are beautiful and innocent. People start hating them as time goes, but I love them. It is a perfect metaphor. Dead flowers are like the hearts of people who have grown physically, but they are still in their childhood.
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    Why should we let go of our innocence and curiosity, when we become mature and responsible? Why can't we continue to be a child at heart, despite growing up? She fires valid questions, for which I have no answers.
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    You usually wouldn't explain your metaphors to anyone, but why did you make me an exception? I ask.
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    Because you have a beautiful Rose at heart, she smiles.

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    Dead flowers are beautiful and innocent. People start hating them as time goes, but I love them. It is a perfect metaphor.