I’d like to state that I’m inexplicably apathetic at the moment. I feel like running through some tall grass, or maybe sitting outside and writing poetry on some worn out paper with some hot coffee..but then I remember I don’t like coffee, and I’m not a poet. So, I sit here still. My roses hang upside down. Interesting really, most people let their roses stay in the vase for days, watching them wilt and once the petals fall onto the counter-tops, they toss them in the trash. Perhaps I’m rather sick. Though my flowers still have days left in them before they begin to wilt, I take them out of their vase and hang them upside down, so they will dry. Dried roses are absolutely beautiful, even when they collect dust and lose their lustrous red color. They are something I can keep. Much like a picture, without the image, or a song without the melody. Perhaps I am sick. I take my flowers and hang them before they die. Just like every day and breath. I take my life and hang it before I die. So do you I suppose, we make it ugly before it can be beautiful. My roses are extravagant. Little specks of white flowers envelope them like snow drops. And why is it that you can never find a rose outside in your yard that looks like those from the store. Those perfect, flawless petals. I rather like those wild ones that grow next to my wall. They bloom big and natural and have spiders that live in them, and their thorns are sharp and their stems are crooked, and I like the imperfect shape of each petal. I can’t stand to lose a memory, so instead of letting it live in my mind colorfully, I hang it upside down so I can have it forever in a toneless mind. Forever and dusty is sometimes better than color and forget-me-nots.