There's pleasure in smelling a flower. There's pleasure in touching a flower. There's pleasure in saying a flower's name. Some may even feel pleasure in eating a flower, or ripping it off the stem and shredding it to pieces.
Maybe you'd rather pluck a flower and toss it in a stream. Or press it between pages of a book. Or put it in your hair. Or maybe you don't like flowers at all. They make you sneeze. You hate nature because it's full of bugs and dirt and who cares about worthless things that grow out of the ground anyway? Or maybe you think flowers are for funerals. Or only for old ladies. Or maybe you think flowers are just products of chemistry, biology, and natural evolution and only seem pretty or interesting to us chimp-descended primates because we're hard-wired to cultivate things from the earth because we need to do so to survive. Whatever you think and feel about flowers, whether you like them hate them, sell them, smell them, draw them, sing about them, write poems about them, or use them to do magic, your life is intricately bound to them. Don't believe me? Imagine the world with no flowers. Nothing made from them. Nothing inspired by them. No. Flowers. At. All. Not even plastic ones. For those of you who need a scorecard, this also takes away virtually all of your drugs, much of your alcohol, and a good chunk of what you like to eat, or at least of what you eat likes to eat. The good news is, you'll still have guns and money and flags and stuff -- as long as the gun model, currency, or flag isn't based somehow on something about flowers. So for those of you with Hobbesian or nihilistic views of the world, the loss of flowers might not mean much so long as there's still a scrum left for your ego and pain. But what you won't realize is: it's missing the joy of touching, smelling, and being among flowers (ie -- blooming with life) that you're crying and killing about. For those of you who are still blooming -- it's a simple thing: the joy of flowers and growth and nature is the joy of being. When a man or woman gives you a flower or you discover a wild rose you feel joy. The joy of pure being. You'll have to come up with a reason to spit on the flower and cry. For a split-second you'll submit to pure joy, pure being. If you contemplate the Amaranth, or magick, or the starry sky, flowers of joy bloom inside of you. You can't stop them. Because that feeling, that spirit, is the source of All Flowers. And also the source of you.
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Daniel E. BlackstonWriter & Occultist. Archives
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