A Colorless Rose

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Strawberry Banksia

There is absolutely no reason to go ahead and try to explain how this flower’s name is pronounced. It would be a waste of everyone’s time and energy, and, quite frankly, there is only a small chance that anyone would be as lucky as to encounter such a funny looking flower. Granted, if that person lived in Western Australia, then the chances greatly improve for him.

Of course, the flower, as many things in Australia seem to be, is a very interesting and wonderful looking thing. It is kind of a u-shaped thing. This is not to suggest that it lacks any and all character, because that would be an insane lie to spread around as gossip for all.

It has these leaves that seem to be spiky on the ends and then the rest of the leaf is just long and looks normal. The flower part almost looks like a cactus. It has spiky light colored thorn looking things on the bottom and then softer looking brighter, strawberry colored, stalks on the top of the flower, which simply gives the flower a very complete look about it.

When people want to look complete, they end up looking much too put together. It can be such a shame sometimes. There is nothing worse than people compromising themselves simply to look as though they have it all figured out. That is the real shame in the world today.

I have never been one to give into society’s pressing demands, but it may simply be a result of my complete disdain for that which the rest of the world is best friends with. I would rather look out of place than fit in well if it meant I could not be my real self. It’s not worth it.

Such becomes the problem of so many artists. They all want to make money and be known by the entire world that they lose themselves along the way. They could be some kind of amazing simply by staying true to themselves, but this is often not as important as sticking to an image or being someone that all other people want to be. They will do anything for fame.

I knew that people who knew who they were and were not willing to do anything that society said they should do, just to go along with it all in an effort to be someone often were the very same people who made a better life for themselves than people who had things like fame and fortune as their only claims to fame. There was no point in being an artist if it meant giving into the very things the artists are supposed to be against and thus poke fun at constantly.

This could be the problem, that in order to be one against society, one must give into the demands that society has placed onto a person who wants to be a rebel of society itself.

Thinking about such things is confusing. I don’t know how philosophers kept their mind intact. They must have a secret to it that they refuse to tell everyone who ever existed.

Anyway, there are people like Steven, who, apparently made great works of art, but did not conform to the simple idea of painting things on paper in a sketchbook. Sure, that could be terrible, for it was a sketchbook, but there weren’t even sketches within the neglected book.

I didn’t know why I still felt so terrible for tearing apart his pieces. He didn’t even want to use the materials he was given. I should feel very accomplished for doing something like this to all of his work. At least now I gave it all a purpose. Of course, I still hadn’t found anything worth saving or even regretting ruining. There was nothing to have been saved for posterity.

He should have been able to create something that people would wish to save and would even want to save for years to come. That’s what I thought artists were supposed to do. I thought they were the ones who created things that gave their commentary on life and people living it.

There was the glaring issue that only artwork by the dead artists was adored and wanted, and such artwork sold for millions. It was the tragedy of artwork, I suppose. They would work so hard while they were alive to create something that made a point. They could work for hours and hours during the night, until there was nothing left except for darkness and sometimes even that was not even left by the time they were completed with their masterpiece of glory.

Then, they would not be able to get it sold in their lifetime. No one would understand for what it stood or what it represented, and so no one would purchase it or even want to consider doing such a thing to it. Yet, there everyone would be, years later, fawning over the poor piece.

They still would not have a clue as to what it represented. They would say it’s beautiful and buy it for that reason only. It would go to many auctions and people would merrily fight over getting to be the proud owner of it. They would bid while drunk and give all their savings on it.

The artist would be dead. There would be no one to ask, what the painting or sculpture or statue even meant. There would be nothing but a lot of people, none of whom had ever really made art or even laid eyes on an artist at work, in black tie attire, white gloves and fancy ties, holding up paddles with meaningless numbers, desiring to have ownership of something that they could only dream of coming close to understanding. It was such a shame. They didn’t know.

The artist would probably look down upon them and sigh, maybe even place a hand on his temples and roll his eyes. And the one person, who stands in the back of the room, and truly knows what the piece stands for and means, is too poor to buy it. He’ll watch, wait. Yet, there will be nothing more than lust for what he cannot have. The admirer who is deserving is always the one who is most likely to never win while he is alive and should rightfully win the battle.

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