Coming out of the fog

𖢥

For the longest time, I clung onto memories. Not just any memories; the ones I was firmly convinced were as truthful as they could be.

The idea of thinking about glimpses of my past that weren't the veridical chain of events used to terrify me, as if I was lying, hiding reality from myself and others.

As I grow and as I go around the crown of the daisy, plucking every petal one by one, I've learnt that we have no control over memories, however close relative to truth we think they are.

The petals are soft. Do you remember how soft they are? Can you feel the velvet on your fingers?

When is the last time you've looked at a daisy flower? Is it like you remember?

Bellis perennis

As a kid, I'm certain (or believe I am certain) to have spent a significant amount of my time looking at a daisy flower. And I mean really looking. I remember the yellow capitulum, this colony of florets simultaneously rough and soft to the touch, the bumps gentle against the skin; and the ray florets with their oftentimes pink ends. If you looked closely enough under the right light, you could encounter their barely perceptible sparkly appearance. I am however not sure if the glimmer was really there, or if the beauty of the inflorescence I had been holding carefully in my hand was enough for me to imagine it shimmering.

I wonder if people spend time observing every detail of anything like I do. I wonder if people learnt to pay attention to every parts of Bellis perennis like I did.

I wonder if people try to remember as much as I do.

𖢥