Member-only story
Since WWII, we have been restlessly searching for the lone rose. Stories going around. So where can the rose be found. No one who can tell. Yet we must find the rose. We must find her before she is wilted and gone forever. Will we ever find her? We must find it before the earth becomes empty and unlivable.
In this time, in which we live now, the rose has disappeared from sight. She has disappeared because of the endless emptiness in our feelings and the lovelessness of our existence. Somewhere in a distant land there is a rose. A rose that is still standing. Somewhere in that distant land in a cold lost place on earth.
I walk from my studio to my now dark kitchen. See my rose standing in a plain bottle in front of the kitchen window. I see her outlined against the pale glow of the lamppost, which with its scant light tries to illuminate the dreary foggy background. As I make my tea with honey, not in the mood for coffee, I stare at my rose. The rose was given to me a week ago by a kind lady, during my last exhibition.
Always red roses. When love blossoms somewhere, the rose appears in all its beauty.
Ringing in my ears is Lionel Ritchie with “Lady.” The rose is like a Lady, charming with unparalleled beauty. I still stare at her.
