Once upon a time, when I was a wee bairn of…uh…I dunno, 9 or so, I heard an REM song with the recurring line “your finest hour,” in it, and I burst into tears. Because I’ve been a weirdo since the day I was born, I immediately set about trying to write a poem capturing the gut wrenching quality of the concept of someone’s life having a “finest” hour. I could not stop crying about that song for days, and never did really manage to properly express why. I’ve continued to think about it here and there in the (gulp) decades since, and because I am still a weirdo, at 30, I currently have those lackluster poetic efforts in a filing cabinet somewhere in my house.
I always like flowers, but I’m going through a particularly intense rose obsession just lately - I have two dead vases of them within sight of where I’m currently sitting - and one of the things that really gets me is how if they’re very, very beautiful in the store, there’s no point buying them because they’ll be dead so soon. Another thing that gets me is how gorgeous they are, dead. This is why I don’t just throw them away immediately once they die, as is customary.
And because I’m a weirdo, this makes me think about Snow White in her glass coffin in the woods and how the dwarves were too captivated by what they thought was her corpse to bury it, and the prince was so caught up in what he thought was her corpse that he needed to get his lips on it.
Back to roses, though, they peak and then that’s it for them. The gif up there, it’s like one long, slow breath (the only one).
It takes me back to that song, and what I was trying to convey when I was 9, which I am still (clearly) unable to convey.
We’re all just in such a hurry to blossom.