Flowers with different colors and
shades inhabit the gardens of pure emotions. A visit would require one to pick
the flower that reflects the pure emotion of their heart. I see people walking
out of the garden with smile on their faces carrying bouquet of colorful
flowers with bright wonderful shades and pleasant scent. Only a handful would
walk out with one stem.
The gardens are surrounded by knee-high picket fences that extend to the far horizon, up to where human sight can reach. Strips of chipped sun-dried paint show signs that these old wooden fences were coated white. Though time has stripped away the beauty of the coat, these wooden fences resemble time itself, with the gift of wisdom attainable only through the harsh course of life’s experience and the wonder of joy tagged along with it. Not only are they lined perfectly, but the dimension of one is the same as all the others. It’s as if these fences were once seeds, planted, watered and cared for all at the same time. I even think twice when the idea crossed my mind; that these fences outgrown the paint that once covered them. But I let go of it right away and walked to the garden gates.
A pair of garden gates compliment the architecture of the wooden fences. These old gates swung in and out as people enter and exit the gardens. The top of each gates are shaped like quarter arcs. One is shaped perfectly to fit the other forming a semi-arc when closed. The gates’ hinges don’t seem to be worn out by time. Old gates normally creak as we move them, but these "gates of time" made no sound as they open and close. Ordinary gates clatter, as the woods bang against each other when they close. But these are no ordinary gates; the doors would approach each other so closely but do not touch. They stay so close to each other that a needle may not pass between them. Above the right gate, a thick wooden sign reads, "Gardens of Pure Emotions". The words are fashionably written in such a way that the sun’s rays create shadows through its deep engraved letters. The edges of the sign were curved and sanded, eliminating the sharp impression of freshly cut wood. A thin margin is engraved which follows the shape of the curvature. The sign was neither varnished nor painted. But it is a fine piece of tiny architecture attached to a garden gate.
I was greeted by the gardener as I walk past the garden gates. "One must walk out with at least one stem on hand, you can stay inside for as long as you please", he said. "Oh! And you won’t know what kind of emotion is in that flower unless it is reflected in your heart. You won’t choose the flowers, the flowers will choose you", then I walked in. "Be careful", he added.
I took my time looking at the flowers. The first set of flowers sway perfectly as the wind touches them. Their soft hue and sweet scent carry a mild light emotion as they dance with the gentle cool breeze caressing their petals. But my heart couldn’t tell which emotion these are. My flower is not definitely in here.
I moved into the next garden. The air here is covered with mist and fog and the familiar delicate scent of these flowers brought me so much sadness and regret that I am almost down on my knees. Droplets of rain eventually washed away the fog. The fog dispersed and trees disclosed themselves with tiny flowers that cover almost all their branches. All the flowers are white and the familiar scent is definitely that of a white plum. I picked one.
I can finally go back but I felt compelled to visit the other gardens, so I moved on. The next one filled my heart with the purest of all emotions that it made me close my eyes the moment I stepped into its garden site with a smile patched on my lips. The air is warm and comforting. Oh! Love fills the air with its warmth. "It’s time to smell the roses, these got to be roses, obviously", I said to myself. I opened my eyes and marvel at the great field of red roses waiting for the picking. I stooped down to pick the loveliest of its kind but as soon as I held it, I felt droplets of blood rushing out of my punctured finger to the stems of this thorny flower. But I didn’t let go. Love is neither a positive nor a negative emotion, but it is the purest and most complicated of all. The one ironic emotion we can never live without. It can cause extreme pain and extreme happiness. The beauty of it lies unbeknownst to us all.
The next garden seems to be a little peculiar. It is not a garden at all. It is just a barren wasteland with a steep canyon. Things started to be clearer when I looked down between the cliff walls. Below are millions of black scentless flowers that the wind can’t even sway. They are so petrified that a single drop of earth or rain would shatter their petals into pieces. I felt despair just by simply looking at them. One must take a leap to be able to pick a flower and death generously welcomes those who attempt to get hold of one. Finally, I find myself air born! Like the plum and rose in my hand, these flowers chose me by reflecting what is in my heart.
There it is, clouding my sanity. Fear that the shards of the shattered petals will be the last sound I will hear. I focused my thought on the pleasant things that touched my senses rather than opening my eyes to witness the horror of a tragic end. I held on to my rose. I held on to its thorns. I held on to it tightly puncturing my flesh so this pain would be the one to cushion me from descent’s end.
