A stem without thorns is lesser, a stem without thorns gets eaten, but a stem without thorns is loved.
I describe this painting through the eyes of a lover.
The air hung heavy with the scent of turpentine. Sunlight streamed through the dusty window, casting long shadows across the cluttered studio floor. In the centre of it all, she stood, brush poised like a conductor’s baton, her gaze fixed on the canvas before her. Each stroke, deliberate and passionate, whispered stories of a love both blooming and bittersweet.
The canvas wasn’t blank, not entirely. A faint outline of a rose garden lay sprawled before her, the remnants of what once seemed a vibrant scene. Crimson strokes, once proud and bold, had dulled with time, the vibrant pinks softened to an echo of their former blush. It was a landscape mirrored in her own heart, a garden of memories, some cherished, others tinged with the sorrow of letting go.
They called her a dreamer, a hopeless romantic who clung to love’s faded petals. Perhaps they were right. But for her, the world was painted not just in colours, but in emotions. In the crimson swirls, she saw the first flush of love, the intoxicating passion that had ignited their souls. The delicate pinks captured the tenderness of stolen glances, whispered secrets, and promises exchanged under starlit skies.
“Call me a romantic”, she murmured, the words barely a whisper. But her voice held a quiet defiance, a refusal to let the cynicism of the world dim the fire within. “There are worse things to be.”
For a moment, she hesitated, staring longingly at the faded brushstrokes. A wave of doubt washed over her, the whispers of ‘what if’ and ‘what could have been’ echoing in the silence. Was she a fool clinging to a wilting rose?
A sigh passed through her lips, and she dipped her brush once more, this time in a vibrant, almost defiant crimson. The first stroke fell onto the canvas, a spark of colour against the faded hues. It was a decision, a choice to believe in the possibility of new beginnings, to paint hope onto the canvas of her heart.
As she continued, the garden began to transform. New buds began to peek through, their colours a blend of past reflections and newfound promise. The pinks returned, brighter and more confident this time, like a love tempered by experience but not diminished.
The strokes became faster, fuelled by a renewed passion. She spoke softly as she painted.
“A stem without thorns is lesser,” she whispered, remembering a forgotten truth. The thorns, once symbolic of hurt and guarded hearts, now became emblems of strength, a reminder that love weathered the storms, emerging stronger for it.
“Your life will be beautiful again,” she murmured to the unseen audience, words meant as much for herself as for the painting. “Just different.”
With each stroke, she painted over the anger, the bitterness that had threatened to consume her. It wasn’t easy. There were moments of hesitation, flickers of the old pain. But with each deliberate brushstroke, she pushed them back, choosing instead to focus on the future, on the potential for new blooms in her garden.
“Does there have to be an end?” she questioned the air, her voice laced with a newfound strength. The question hung unanswered, yet the very act of painting felt like a defiance of that inevitability. Perhaps endings were not definitive, but simply transitions, paving the way for new beginnings.
She thought back to the many loves she’d encountered, some fleeting, others leaving deeper scars. “Unlucky in love,” they called her. But she saw it differently. Each experience, however painful, had been a lesson, a brushstroke shaping who she was today.
A single tear escaped her eye, tracing a path down her cheek. It wasn’t a tear of sadness, but of understanding. Love wasn’t a competition, nor a static state. It was a journey, a constant evolution of emotions, shaped by the experiences we gather along the way.
And just as she was about to let go of the brush, a new figure emerged on the canvas. A gardener, their gentle hands reaching out to nurture the newly formed buds. It wasn’t just one gardener, but a multitude, each representing the love that surrounded her, the friends, family, and even strangers who offered kindness and support.
Finally, with a flourish, she painted a single rose, its petals a blend of the crimson, pink, and ivory. It wasn’t identical to the roses of the past, but it held their essence, a testament to the enduring power of love – A rose devoid of its thorns. It was a gift, offered not to another, but to herself, a reminder that even the most withered gardens could come back alive, and could bloom in the bleakest of feelings. It filled her with the colours of hope, resilience, and the ever-present possibility of loving once again.