linger

linger

Childish to say the least. I remember when I thought that knowing meant understanding, and understanding was so central to being wise. It's much of a naive thought now, but I still do not understand the other side of that argument. What does this understanding serve? Needless to say, many have not understood or really taken the value of what I wrote below. Read the radical lingering rejection:

The rose is perfectly what it is: an undying metaphor used to remember the dead, to express beauty, corruption, love or anything else that fits the occasion. Delicate and fragile, beautiful yet deadly, and altogether perfectly resolute for what it has become a symbol for, the rose is eternal.

On a cold winter day, I sat down on a bench in Descanso Gardens and I studied a rose. I sat there for a bit, and then I left. But what actually happened was that a moment of epiphany dawned on me when my gaze collided with the ephemeral beauty, and saw beyond the rose to see a metaphor of the human mind. But in all reality, I looked at a rose, stood up, and left, because abstractions don’t exist in a concrete reality.

But what happens when a young lover gives a rose to the girl he always adored? Or when a son lays a rose upon the gravestone of his mother? Meaning is given to an utterly meaningless plant, and the rose blooms into a grand gesture, becoming a vessel of language. When I studied the rose in the garden, I saw a rose that had no meaning, yet could imply meaning on a totally separate level of insight. Just as the eternal rose can be as brisk and undaunting as the morning sun, multiple dimensions of depth give way to a new meaning of understanding.

There’s a word for people like me, people that see both the fleeting rose and the undying metaphor, and come to accept that both exist where such harmony is impossible. It is the same word for people that see every weakness in education, yet pursue the elegant door of opportunity for knowledge and the growth it poses; the same word for people that see the sophistry of cynicism and yet still try to dig deeper for some abstraction to operate as a meaning for every ‘why’ that appears. A paper swashbuckler. A pacifist cavalier. A reverent libertine. A selfless egotist. A happy idealist. That’s exactly what I am: a paradox.

I saw a paradox in the rose. Although there was no literal symbol in it, I abstracted it because literature, culture, and the minds of people beg for meaning, even if it is paradoxical. Just as the rose is nothing but a plant, the pinnacle of all humanity’s achievements is nothing but words, paint, numbers and noise. But words, paint, numbers and noise are all we have to live on, because out of that chaos, literature, music, math, and art are born.

School hands me a palette of rough materials. I call this knowledge. Physics formulas and SAT vocabulary are typical examples. But more than how much of this knowledge I simply retain, what takes precedence is how I understand its mechanics and use it to transform and progress society. Just as I take the rose and fashion it with bits and pieces of implication and create wondrous meaning, I give this knowledge breath by molding and funneling it into my everyday life. In the future, I may take the formula for Power and apply it to a Dam in California to conserve water. I may take my SAT vocabulary and write a book on the discourse of nations and the fundamental need for cooperation between states to create global unity. At face value, it may seem knowledge has little meaning because facts and theories alone have no power without initiative, but this knowledge can have tremendous power. Understanding that this knowledge holds great influence, sometimes bringing civilizations to their peak, but sometimes destroying others, gives it a fresh sweep of significance. Metaphors siphon worth and progressiveness in an otherwise bland palette of knowledge. These building blocks of my perceived intelligence are what make me a conscious being, capable of changing and propelling humanity for the better. Now learning is never the same. As my palette of knowledge increases, the portrait I can paint becomes more and more progressively brilliant.

When I sat down on the bench in Descanso garden, I heard a voice. The rose asked me, “Am I beautiful? Despicable? Shallow? Deep? Mystifying?”

I looked it and replied, “No, you are just a rose,” stood up, and left. But at some point of understanding, the rose becomes a rose no more, but everything it needs to be, and more.

...

It's a nice thought, I suppose. And I thought I made it so straightforward heh

Common application.. pwah