first and last love

(......)

Maybe now is the time to describe what I've done. You'll probably think this story is trivial. No! Someone else would, but you'll understand. I hope you don't know what it's like to have tons of friends but not have someone you truly care about and who cares about you. I did some time ago. I had no goals, no prospects. Nothing, just "friends." Finally, I met HER. She introduced me to that feeling when we didn't see each other for a few hours. That feeling is "pain," because that's the only way to describe what happened to me when I didn't see her for more than half a day. She taught me responsibility for my own decisions, which is partly why I write now and why I don't spend time with HER. When it comes to feelings, before I met her, I was the stupidest person on earth. She made me more educated than ever. I became a genius when it comes to feelings. I started caring about others, being able to feel the pain of my loved ones, to love, to miss, to forgive. However, even a perfect person, even a genius, can do something foolish. I forgot about these feelings. Love, tenderness, longing, forgiveness, understanding, gentleness, compassion—these are seven wonderful and difficult-to-describe states and behaviors toward another person. She taught me these things like no one else. She taught them with perseverance. You could call them ROSES, because just as you care for a flower, she nurtured these feelings within me. I came to her every day with these seven roses. Always seven roses. Always with a bouquet. She said I wasn't bringing her flowers, but she was wrong. Every day I brought her the ones she herself nurtured, the ones that grew at the foundation of US. I loved her, I missed her even when she left the room, I forgave her even though she never gave me reason to be angry, I understood even when she said nothing, I was gentle and compassionate. The bouquet of roses grew with every minute spent in her company. My problem was that sometimes, instead of roses, I would bring only stems with thorns. So much so that it was seven dry sticks with thorns. There was no love, only hatred. Longing turned into a desire for distance. Understanding into differences of opinion. Forgiveness into betrayal. Gentleness into the greatest psychological violence. I turned compassion into my own selfishness. There weren't seven roses, only the worst bouquet imaginable. In the following days, I would bring 100 roses as an apology, but that bouquet of dry thorns always remained. As I wrote, before I met her, when it came to expressing feelings and emotions, I was the stupidest person in the world. However, when I met her, I became a genius who could do stupid things from time to time. At the moment of my greatest knowledge, yet blinded by egoism and my inferior self, I gave her the worst flower imaginable. That flower was violence. After that day, I lost my memory and, with it, all my knowledge.I became the stupidest man in the world again, but now I was also the poorest. Now I have to live with my stupidity. I'm trying to regain this knowledge. I try to read books, but what good is it when the greatest and best teacher no longer wants to teach me? She changed the curriculum. SHE was a lesson for me, that's why I wanted to learn. Now my only lesson is loneliness. I don't want to, but I have to learn it. This lesson is a punishment for my truancy. This is the only category of knowledge you can't learn on your own. For that, you need another person. Theory isn't enough. You need another person to practice. My practice, unfortunately, is over. That's why I'm abandoning education once and for all. This isn't something I should be doing in life. They should forbid me from doing that. They should forbid me from loving. Why is it easier to describe suffering than joy? I can't describe to you the joy I felt every second with her, but I can at least somewhat describe the suffering—the consequences of my decisions. My suffering from choosing the wrong path is incomparably less than what the person who was the source of my greatest knowledge felt. All I have left are wilted roses. For her, however, there is no flower she could give me. She will no longer give me any flower like affection. I am indifferent to her. For me, the friendship of the most important teacher of life is an acquaintance based on a passive attitude towards each other, rooted in indifference. She will never again give me love, or even anger. The time when we exchanged flowers has passed. For her, there is no flower in the world she could give me. However, I know such a flower. It grows far away and takes time to bloom, but I know she will give it to me someday. This flower is oblivion. She tends another garden and has another person who provides her with dozens of the most perfect bouquets of roses in the world every day. I can only search far and wide for some new, unique, and undiscovered species of flower. Maybe I won't have to search; maybe I'll create it myself. Every day I look into my bouquet. There is one rose that hasn't wilted, that blooms, eternal and always perfect. You won't uproot it because it has sunk its roots too deep. You won't break it because it has armed itself too strongly with this feeling. The thorns have fallen off because they were overcome by the force of this phenomenon. It is watered daily by my tears. The fertilizer is the hope that we will find each other. Only sometimes a petal of a red rose flies away, carried away by loneliness and the thought that she is already with someone else. Only one person can destroy this miracle of nature, this pristine flower, this feeling. Only one person can enter the garden and trample it, only one person will be allowed to uproot and burn this rose. That person is death. Yet this rose blooms and continues to wait for its creator. For my teacher, for the person thanks to whom I can grow a whole garden of such roses. There is no more beautiful rose on earth. This rose grew from the foundation of an indestructible feeling,Sown with the seeds of faith and hope. I will give her this rose someday. I will give it to her when I have the courage. Then we will water it together, but no longer with tears. It will grow and bloom thanks to our joy, understanding, and our affection. We will possess an entire garden of such roses. Someday I will show you how great, how wonderful, and how pure my rose is for her. Someday I will show you how great, how wonderful, and how pure my love for her is. I will show you the love growing within me. I will show you, but showing it will take a long time. It cannot be understood in an instant. It takes time. I can only compare love to a rose. It is equally delicate, equally thorny. It behaves the same way when it is not cared for, even for the shortest time. It simply withers. Both of these phenomena are undeniably beautiful. You can create different kinds of roses, different species, and they can express the most secret, beautiful, and indescribable feelings. Such is love. However, I have cultivated a perfect, flawless rose. It is indestructible, it doesn't hurt with thorns, it has grown so deeply that I don't have to care for it, it lives its own life, sometimes despite me. Sometimes I regret not being able to control it, because although it is beautiful, it can make me sad. It can sadden me with its appearance. You can only imagine it, but I see it all happening before me. A lonely rose. Without its owner. A masterless rose. Love left to be forgotten, to perish, to an inevitable end. That's the end. It remains alone. It will grow in solitude. The flowers of joy, sadness, jealousy, suffering, anger, understanding, longing, and hope will never grow around her. A rose full of love, stripped of the petals of others' use, watered by anger, frustration, shame, regret, and stupidity. Such is my rose for HER. The rose of the gardener, the friend of an indifferent man, who, using the fertilizer of his own stupidity, grew in the desert of loneliness. He will never be allowed to see even a mirage, no oasis, devoid of illusions. Far from his teacher's garden, her books, teachings, and lessons. Alone. In his hand, the last flower, especially from her. Nurtured especially for him, with thorns the likes of which he has never seen, with thorns piercing his hands. With a rose named especially for him. With a rose named Forgetfulness.It simply withers. Both of these phenomena are undeniably beautiful. You can create different kinds of roses, different species, and they can express the most hidden, beautiful, and indescribable feelings. Such is love. However, I have nurtured a perfect, flawless rose. It is indestructible, it doesn't hurt with thorns, it has grown so deeply that I don't have to care for it, it lives its own life, sometimes to my detriment. Sometimes I regret not being able to control it, because although it is beautiful, it can make me sad. It can sadden me with its appearance. You can only imagine it, but I see it as if it were all happening before me. A lonely rose. Without its owner. A masterless rose. Love left to be forgotten, to perish, to an inevitable end. That's the end. It remained alone. She will grow in solitude. Never will the flowers of joy, sadness, jealousy, suffering, anger, understanding, longing, or hope grow around her. A rose full of love, stripped of the petals of others' use, watered by anger, frustration, shame, regret, and stupidity. Such is my rose for HER. The rose of the gardener, the friend of an indifferent man, who, using the fertilizer of his own stupidity, grew in the desert of loneliness. He will never be allowed to see even a mirage, no oasis, devoid of illusions. Far from his teacher's garden, her books, teachings, and lessons. Alone. In his hand, the last flower, especially from her. Nurtured especially for him, with thorns the likes of which he has never seen, with thorns piercing his hands. With a rose named especially for him. With a rose named Forgetfulness.It simply withers. Both of these phenomena are undeniably beautiful. You can create different kinds of roses, different species, and they can express the most hidden, beautiful, and indescribable feelings. Such is love. However, I have nurtured a perfect, flawless rose. It is indestructible, it doesn't hurt with thorns, it has grown so deeply that I don't have to care for it, it lives its own life, sometimes to my detriment. Sometimes I regret not being able to control it, because although it is beautiful, it can make me sad. It can sadden me with its appearance. You can only imagine it, but I see it as if it were all happening before me. A lonely rose. Without its owner. A masterless rose. Love left to be forgotten, to perish, to an inevitable end. That's the end. It remained alone. She will grow in solitude. Never will the flowers of joy, sadness, jealousy, suffering, anger, understanding, longing, or hope grow around her. A rose full of love, stripped of the petals of others' use, watered by anger, frustration, shame, regret, and stupidity. Such is my rose for HER. The rose of the gardener, the friend of an indifferent man, who, using the fertilizer of his own stupidity, grew in the desert of loneliness. He will never be allowed to see even a mirage, no oasis, devoid of illusions. Far from his teacher's garden, her books, teachings, and lessons. Alone. In his hand, the last flower, especially from her. Nurtured especially for him, with thorns the likes of which he has never seen, with thorns piercing his hands. With a rose named especially for him. With a rose named Forgetfulness.with thorns like none he'd ever seen, with thorns piercing his hands. With a rose named especially for him. With a rose named Forgetfulness.with thorns like none he'd ever seen, with thorns piercing his hands. With a rose named especially for him. With a rose named Forgetfulness.