I buy fresh flowers for my coffee table every week. They start off beautiful. When I throw them away I can barely stand to touch them. They rot and stink.
I’m convinced that no one is truly happy or sad, but mostly wading through a life of confusion while celebrating moments of respite and clarity when they come. Sometimes they come but once in a blue moon.
Things change. Ships sink. Love dies; parents too. All fabric breaks.
Control is the worst word.