A Colorless Rose

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Safari Sunset

I have always wondered what it would be like to go on a safari. I would love to go around and see the world for something more than it is. There is something that I adore about nature that also scares me at the exact same time. I hate that things like this are what scare me so much. I despise the fact that what I think is very beautiful is also what ends up being my fear.

There are animals which I could see if I were to go on one. I could see the beautiful sunset full of warm colors of varying gradients as the day becomes night. There would be nothing better than being able to see the world while everything was out to see in the open.

The flower Safari Sunset happens to be an evergreen. This is interesting to hear, while the flower also happens to be native to Australia. The wonderful news of the flower is that it has a vibrant red color to it, which makes it seem like a wonderful sunset in its own right.

People who cannot appreciate something for being so simple will never be able to understand what it is like to see people as all being similar. It was a problem that many people today had; looking at people as only how they are different, paying no mind to that many, many aspects that each and every one of us have in common. It should be simpler to be nice. Everything is easier said than done.

Anyhow, there is not much that people do to appreciate the simplicities of life. Many prefer to get hung up on tiny details and then distract themselves from the story they are trying to tell their audience. It would be nicer for people to not pick the minute facets of life and only go with those ones. Yet, the greatest stories I have ever been told have often begun with nothing more than a silly little detail.

One little detail becomes a story, a story of a dream that was long forgotten before it was ever attempted to be made into reality. This is how the stories I was about to be told by Mason began. He loved to begin with a little detail. Sometimes there would be a setting told to me first. There was always a detail.

There was the story he neglected to give me the details of. He told me the beginning and the end of the tale and not the tale itself. Clearly he only cared to tell me about the ways in which snow falls down in the night sky and how he is an incredibly big fan of snowflakes. But where was the story?

“So, the snowflakes? Is there anything else there to the story?” I was pressing him and didn’t know if my curiosity was going to bode well or not. It has killed the cat, and so it could do the same for me, too.

“Figures you would rather hear the boring part of the story. There’s nothing to it.” The way his face fell made me think otherwise, but I wasn’t willing to press him for more. “It would make you want to leave.” A sigh escaped. He looked me up and down. “You would be bored.” Liar, I thought.

“If you say so,” I said. There was a way he looked at me that made me think there was something less to be desired than what I was longing for. He had a way of looking passionately about anything. “Is there really nothing more to the story?” He turned toward me and looked me in the eye. “Believe me, I won’t run away. And I promise you, I won’t be bored. I’ve heard loads of stories.”

“So now it’s all a game to you? Everything I’m saying to you is only something more to go on your scale of good to bad?” He was very agitated. He was speaking in the polar opposite of hushed tones and I almost worried that this would be as far as we would ever get. There was a story I wanted to hear.

There was nothing that came to mind that I could tell him to make him feel less annoyed with me; this much I knew for sure. “It’s not simply just something more for me to put on an arbitrary scale.” Now it was my turn to get aggravated with a stranger I had just met. “I want to know about you, like it or not. I can tell that you don’t like it. That’s fine. If you would rather just make up stupid things to talk about and avoid telling me anything about yourself, then be that way. But, guess what? There’s only so many stories about myself that I have. Eventually I’ll fun out. And then you’ll be the bored one. Then what?”

“Good for you, being an open book. Woo hoo. Did you ever consider that there was more to my story than I wanted to share with someone? I think you just don’t know how to have a real conversation.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” my voice questioned in a high shrill that bothered me.

“Just that you cannot stand to not receive the answer that you want. That’s all. And then, when you don’t get the answer you desired, you blame the other person. People are not perfect or predictable. I can only tell you what I want to tell you. If you don’t like it, there’s the door. Feel free to leave.”

“Maybe I will.” I stood up and walked out. It felt nice to have control. I trekked down the stairs and became very confused as to which way I was going. As I rounded the corners within the house’s walls, I wondered more and more about what I was thinking, going inside the house in the first place.

I was crazy. How come I thought that I could figure out the town’s beloved mystery? I couldn’t even talk to a stranger without being kicked out of his house. I was doing so well before I got into the issue of trying to make him tell me his life story. That was ludicrous of me. I wouldn’t have told him much of my life story, had he asked. I would have held on to my secrets for dear life as well.

There was something weird about sharing your secrets with someone else. You don’t know how the other person will react or if that person will judge you. They all say that they won’t judge you, and then you’ll start to believe them. Then, you’ll open up your heart to that person, expecting no judgment.

Of course, there are only so many promises that can be kept all the way through. Apparently keeping the promise of not judging a person who is willing to open up to you is not one that people consider keeping. It shouldn’t be the one promise so frequently broken, but, of course, it has to be.

I thought back to the simple fact of honesty. There was something that Mason was lacking when he told me about the snow falling down. The way he talked about the story seemed to be missing a nuance that anyone who passionately felt had. Even when passionately avoiding a detail, the element would still be very present. The nuance of the story that makes it what it is should be the one thing always there.

And yet, it was not there. I was racking my brain, wondering what there was that I should do. As I had already left, it would appear peculiar if I were to have entered back in. No, I would have stormed back into the house, demanding that he finish up his story. He could have refused, but I would have pushed even harder to get the rest of the story. He had told me other things, and there seemed to be no logical reason for him to stop talking to me now. There was something more to the story. I needed to know it.

Why was it that this always happened? I get somewhere so close to someone and then manage to ruin it all in one simple swoop. Then again, I had never been one to talk about my life’s stories with someone whom I had barely known. Perhaps this was just his normal reaction and I was overthinking everything. I am one to choose blowing things out of proportion whenever it seems absolutely unnecessary.

My shoes were digging into the back of my feet and were forming blisters. I should have known better than to wear slip-on sneakers to roam around a town. There was something I’d always hated about sneakers, and so I never wore them. I would run a marathon in flip flops if I had to.

I was so determined to have to stop wandering around aimlessly that I conveniently halted right near the field. It seemed to like me, the field. I was never a fan of the outdoors. It could try all that it wanted to get me to like it, but I was not planning to be a fan of grass and dirt anytime in the near future.

Deciding to lay down on the grass may not have done well to support my opinion that I was incredibly against the outdoors. However, it was something that made me certain that my friend would come back and talk to me. It would be nice to see someone who had known me a bit better than did Mason. A familiar face was what I needed to see. I could use someone who preferred honesty. He wouldn’t go ahead and stop midway through a story just because he was getting frustrated with me.

There was a chance that I wasn’t going to run into Ricky, but it was a slim chance and one that I was willing to take. The flip side of the coin in that I would see him and then everything would fall into place, exactly as it always should. There was a risk to it. I never shied away from risks.

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