6. mai 2005

This will be the first sentence of my blog. Ever. I haven't read much of anybody else's blogs, so I don't have a precise knowledge about what they write. But I will write a short scene every day.

On one day, it might be a description of something, on another, a paragraph-formed short story. it might be about my life, but it doesn't have to. I think it will be mostly about how I feel, how was the day, what happened - today seems like a flower, a daffodil.

Have you ever looked at a daffodil so closely you can see even the tiniest details? I would be wrong if I said it looked beautiful, but it doesn't look disgusting either, just... different. Yes, different. Like everybody is, in their own way different from everybody else. And it's not only the people - the flowers, daffodils, are, too. Every one of them unique, each one-of-a-kind. If looked at from this angle, picking a flower - any flower - is like a murder. Ok, maybe you hold it in your hand, enjoy it's fragance, give it as a gift to someone dear and close to your heart, but it will still die, die too early, maybe without having even had a chance to last, to leave something behind.

I'm not saying we shouldn't pick flowers - be my guest, do that - but think before you destroy it's life for ever, you can't restore it.

When I started writing this post, I wanted to describe a daffodil, looked so closely. But I don't have one of those here - the lines of description were made on my previous experiences. To come to think of it, it's sad I don't have any flowers here now.

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