Keeping still inside my carpet bag crammed with pink roses often brings rewards from some secret pocket of radiance. They thaw out the ice box crammed with wastage, wanton wastage and time stuck sullenly inside a mountain of old trash. They search out that stash of forgotten books to be read, or music lying locked inside dusty disgruntled drawers of distress. Recently I retrieved Pavarotti’s Nessun Dorma from Turandot and was buried inside bliss within seconds!
Pink roses beg to devour those scribbles of sense sleeping inside forgotten journals. Then they rummage around receipts proud of good shopping, reminders of good stuff seen on Netflix like the addictive House Of Cards, bad stuff dumped, long walks diligently taken, naps too when needed.
When my universe unravels in searing slow motion, pink roses suggest escaping inside the quietude of old journals, turning over their pages to often stumble into sweet solace or wondrous surprises or some kind of solution or even just some comfort food to treat myself to, till the bad time gets bored with me and goes out through the back door.
Pink roses also fly towards underground second hand book stores, and especially the ones that have stray cats lurking under piles of dusty books like fur coated detectives! Ultimately pink roses always scribble away snippets of information to turn the dry and dusty skirt of a day into a muddled bowl of mystifying magic.