“I am alone in the midst of these happy, reasonable voices. All these creatures spend their time explaining, realizing happily that they agree with each other. In Heaven's name, why is it so important to think the same things all together. ”
― Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea
― Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea
The world is very loving in the way that it wears its heart on its sleeve. It tries to accept you and all it asks for is the proof of conformity .Conform and be loved. That is the unwritten social contract. But you were probably not one of those who have conformed.
It all started out in school when you were being welcomed to the machine. When you were being made fit for an unfit society. You had your teachers filling your head with concepts and ideas of others. When your parents seemed to be so much more fond of that cousin of yours studying in those colleges that you were supposed to reach as well. But your head was full of ideas of your own, things that interested you , things that you found so gorgeous, things that were not enough proof for the world to love you. All in all, all you ever wanted was to be truly loved, but the world kept asking for proof. When you were in school it asked for marks and grades. You were degraded to a number with a percentage sign after it, and all traces of identity washed away like sandcastles on a beach. But of course you try to hold on to those fleeting castles of sand only being lead deeper into that vast unforgiving sea. You were a black rose in a world that loved gardens of red roses.
Then school was out and you were out into the big world. You saw so many of your friends give the world that proof , you saw them turn their black roses into a crimson that you just couldn’t imagine. You wished you were like them , easily amused .Puberty hit and you began to notice the opposite gender. And then she came, the other black rose. There was that one moment of two dark hearts scarring darker together. But how many of such black roses turned into crimson and how many faded. All they left was their own fragrance on you, making you a different flower every time.
Then you found yourself your Rock god and let his music fuel your own angst. All of those long haired rebel poets who seemed to hit your black rose heart in the most soothing of ways. You probably liked that one Kurt Cobain a lot. More than anything you liked the fact that he escaped this world of red roses into one where black was loved , just like you had dreamed of so many times. That utter madness and chaos of distorted guitars and pounding drums with a thousand other misfits like you raising their fists to celebrate their awkwardness gave you the greatest outlet you had ever known.
Then you reached college, probably the one where the herd led you .And there you saw the people you so pathologically hate, the pretenders. You struggled so hard to protect your identity , to be the black rose in the world trying to pour crimson on your petals. And there were the others , bathed in that worldly crimson. You let one of your rock god’s anthems be the requiem for such pretenders , deriving strength from the maddening chaos of fuzz pedals and snare drums. ‘ What if I say I’m not like the others, what if I say I’m not just another one of your plays , you’re the pretender!! What if I say I’ll never surrender?!’ you had to hear it every night and every morning to survive in this monarchy of red roses.
And so the summers slipped away and you got a job. And you were expected to buy your own happiness. You had to buy gifts, so others loved you. You had to have possessions so people respected you and loved you for possessing them. But you just didn't have the heart to buy the red rose, you just loved your own shade of black. This not belonging or reclusiveness or non-conformity that you old in such esteem are the price you paid for being the solitary black. You had to learn to be on exile on main street. But now your black rose has blossomed , much more than those other reds will ever hope to.
So now you have two choices. You can buy the proof that will buy you love or you can continue your exile on main street. This is where one of your rock gods would sing ‘ There is room at the top they are telling you still. But first you must learn how to smile as you kill, if you want to be like the folks on the hill.’
Take my word, don’t be like the folks on the hill. Do not look for the proof for love and acceptance. Be the black rose you are and let other wild flowers leave their scent upon you. And then you shall blossom much more than you could ever think.
After all , why does love have to be a red rose? Isn’t love about the blossoming and not the flower?