Pretty

What makes something pretty? I mean, what qualifies a thing to be pretty? An opinion? Certainly not a fact…you can't, for a fact, be pretty… unless we define what pretty is... The world is a pretty place. The world is pretty blank. An adjective used to describe the vision of perfection or one that is used to hold the place of a word that tells of a definite state of being?



Who decides what is pretty and what isn't? Who made the blooming bud, waiting to open up, enter the world as a "pretty" or "wanted" object? The wilted rose hangs, basking in its final hours of warmth, watching others of its kind being stripped of sunlight. People do this too. Just like flowers, beauty dies with age. Just like flowers, love and warmth keeps us alive forever. Just like flowers, someone decides who will continue to share beauty with the world and who is deemed "unpretty". Just like flowers, the pretty ones stay, and the wilted ones die alone. No more love coursing through their leaves into
their roots, making them feel unstoppable against the cruel, unforgiving world. Not this flower. 



It’s now alone. 



Everyone is gone. Alone with all the thoughts swirling inside its stem wanting to branch out and turn over its leaves and suddenly change into the image the eye of the beholder of decisions deems "pretty". It is no longer desired by the world. It is no longer accepted into society. It is no longer alive, thriving on adventure and confidence to face life's ordinary challenges. It is no longer pretty.

Now...it is just...wilted...

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