Of course, nothing soars forever. Even Icarus had a appointment with the sea.
As the sun sets behind the highlands, the flower settles back into the vase. The woman closes the window. For a moment, the room is just a room again. crimson lotus soaring
The crimson lotus soars because it has forgotten the mud. It does not carry the baggage of its roots. It does not apologize for its vibrancy in a world that often demands beige compliance. It rises because stagnation is death, and the lotus, above all else, is a survivor dressed in velvet armor. Of course, nothing soars forever
But we both know the truth. Tomorrow, when the light hits the glass just right, the crimson lotus will look east. It will stretch its stem. The woman closes the window
And in the three seconds I glanced away to check my phone, I swore I saw it hover. Just a millimeter above the rim of the vase. A tremor of levitation. The crimson lotus, testing the drag of the earthly tether.
But the beauty of the crimson lotus is that it does not crash. It descends with the grace of a spent firework. It looks for another patch of murky water. It touches down gently, closes its petals around the seed of memory, and waits.