A Rose in The Dark

To the one I love,

What if on Valentine ’s Day, everyone becomes blind and all roses suddenly lose their scent? How can I let you know that I love you aside from saying the words? How can I possibly touch your heart if you can never see the roses I am giving you? How can I find that beautiful rose if all I can see is darkness? What would happen to my dreams of leaving red and white roses on your bed so that you’d dream romantic dreams when you go to sleep? What would happen to my dreams of surprising you with a romantic shower of rose petals?

In the dark, in our blindness, there will be no romantic sunsets for us to behold. No majestic mountains and pristine seas for us to view. No candlelight to glow and glimmer between two dining lovers. No glistening stars for us to look up to in the serenity of the night. So where will I take you?

I’ll take you to a place where the cold wind blows. Be it a place where beautiful trees stand with utmost grandeur amidst a sea of shimmering green meadows, or a bleak, dry valley devoid of beauty and vegetation. For it will not matter what we shall see. Only what we shall feel. The wind’s hissing shall be the bright, blinding glare of sunlight. The gust, the blow of the wind, the stirring of the strands of our windblown hair, the tingling of our senses as the chillingly cool wind pricks our skin, they shall all be the sun rays that shower us with warmth. And when the wind seems to run out of breath, when its furious hissing becomes a soft, soothing murmur, that will be our romantic sunset. Maybe it won’t be as romantic as the breathtaking sunsets we have already seen in our lives. But what better thing can we have? What else can I offer you to make you feel the intensity of our romance? If I can’t offer you visual splendor, I’ll offer you the best I can. I’ll offer you the splendor of a beautiful feeling. If we can’t see the beauty around us, why can’t we just opt to feel all the beauty we failed to feel deeply enough because we were too busy seeing?

Come to think of it, my love. There must have been a time when no one saw the romance in sunsets. But we learned. Everyone learned to believe that there is romance in beauty. And that a beautiful sunset is a romantic sunset. So believe me, we shall also learn. We shall learn to feel the romance in each beautiful feeling. We will learn to feel romantic when we feel the wind. And let us begin the learning today. So we can start feeling the sweetness today.

As a gift, I can not give you roses. But I will give you the rain. When I hear the rain pouring, when the raindrops begin to knock on our roofs, I’ll know that my spring has come. So I’ll take you outside. And we’ll feel the coldness together. We’ll embrace and feel the countless raindrops slithering between my skin and yours. I know there won’t be a pleasant scent for us to relish. But at least we’ll have something intense and pleasant to feel. We’ll feel each other shiver. And that shiver, that little manifestation of a quiet inner suffering, that will be the assurance that this gift comes from the heart.

As for my dreams of showering you with rose petals, I will never give that up. Though blind, though handicapped, I will search the ground for every light little thing that can fly and flutter in midair, little things that will feel like rose petals when they fall on you. Be they merely torn paper, leaves or plastic garbage. And when I have gathered enough, I will throw them all up. So they can fall upon the two of us. Just like rose petals. And as they fall, I’ll hold your hand and we shall reminisce. We shall imagine. We shall believe that these light, little things are red and beautiful. For when our eyes can no longer see, we’ll see through our memories.

Memories. They are what can turn the ugly beautiful, the despicable endearing, and the painful soothing. One day we’ll find ourselves walking along the banks of a stinking, polluted river. But because that river is the same river we saw together each day as we went home, we’ll stop to relish the river’s putrid smell. Because that smell, no matter how offensive, will flood our minds with beautiful memories. Beautiful images that we shall never see again. One night, the hounds will shatter the night’s tranquility with their howls. But we shall not be disturbed. We shall not be angered by those maddening sounds. Because through the howling hounds, we’ll know that the moon and the stars are up there, glowing, glistening, existing. One night, we’ll find ourselves standing dangerously close to a fire. We shall not see its light. But we shall feel its warmth. The same warmth that shall remind us of the romantic candlelight and the glorious bonfires we stared at quietly on the countless nostalgic nights of our past. And because we’ll want to feel more, to remember more of the romantic past, we’ll extend our hands towards that warmth. And we’ll let the fire burn our palms until we could no longer bear the pain. Yes, it shall be painful. But can anyone blame us for wanting to feel this much?

One day, perhaps, in my search for light, little things that feel like rose petals; I’ll find a priceless treasure on the ground. As I try to pick up something, I’ll be pricked by the thing’s thorns. Because it is a real rose. And I will rejoice because of that miracle. In my joy I’ll grip the flower’s stem tightly, letting the thorns pierce my skin until the blood flows out. And as soon as I find you, I’ll hand you my gift. A rose in the dark. Incredulous, you will hesitate to reach for it. But because you love me, you’ll touch my hand, and feel the blood that drenches it. The same blood that had come out of the wounds caused by the rose. The same blood that proves to you that I have a real rose in my hand. The same blood that lets you know how much I love you. Then, reluctantly, you’ll touch the soft petals, and then slide your hand to the thorny stem, gripping it, letting your palm bleed as much as mine does. Letting your blood fuse with mine as it drips down the flower’s stem, and then down to your arms. We’ll bleed, feel each other bleed and find bliss in each other’s bleeding. We will grip the stem even more tightly, let the blood flow out more profusely. And then we’ll suffer, we’ll cry and find bliss in each other’s weeping. In another life, such pleasure would have been deemed sick. But can anyone blame us for wanting to feel this much? Can anyone stop us from loving this much? From being this passionate? For hurting ourselves this much because the pain brings back ethereally beautiful memories? Because this is the only way to feel our love at its deepest? As we cry, we shall embrace. And not care how much pain we have to bear, or inflict on each other, just to experience this much love.

Sometimes, for love to be truly passionate, the lovers will have to suffer and bleed.