Life is an illusion, just a shadow, a reflection in a mirror. A wall of laments built by the real me. Life is déjà vu, just a dream, an abandoned building. A windowless room, and a haunted house. Life is a controversial teacher, nothing more, a thread of lies knotted tight. Foolish, the one who seeks the truth! Life is a summer flower, withering, dying a little more each day since childhood. Then why fear an ending that was never ours? Life is an illusion, just a dream...
# A Summer Flower <p>In the garden where the sun beats down, a flower blooms without a name— petals the colour of forgotten things, stem bent like a question mark.</p> <p>It does not ask to be admired. It does not know it will wilt. It simply opens to the heat, drinks the light as if it were water, as if thirst could be satisfied by what consumes us.</p> <p>The bees know it is there. The wind knows. Even the dust knows and settles on its face like a lover's hand.</p> <p>By evening it will close. By autumn it will scatter. But now, in this bright moment, it stands alone in the garden— unwitnessed, unworried, perfect in its impermanence.</p> <p>We pass it without seeing. We have forgotten how to stop. We have forgotten that beauty is not meant to last, that the most exquisite things are those that know they must die.</p>
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