Of a Nolana

This violet Nolana, beautiful and coveted as it is, shall never belong to me. I simply do not possess the resources, not of the mind nor of material, to care for it. With me, it shall only be unhappy – it shall wither and all its impressive beauty fade. It shall be like the middle-aged lady I saw on the train today, who sat beside her napping husband. Occasionally she would turn to him, as if ready with a eager sentiment, but seeing him still asleep, would return to looking down at her hands, slightly dispirited. Then I caught the little glimmer of a ring. Could it be, I wondered, that she was reminiscing about her younger years, the years where she flourished full of life and enthusiasm, and about that freedom she was allowed to choose from the many who vied for her heart. “Where have gone those colorful years?” She’d think to herself. But of course, this was only a fictitious narration; I imagine that things are much happier, or least, less melancholic. You see now why I shall bring ruin to the bright flower. My melancholy broods in contrast to the lively dance of its petals. Even my humor secretly whispers of melancholy. No water I can give to this Nolana will not poison its roots and darken its leaves. Veritably, she is not for me; and in fact deserves a better, more adequate florist.


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