But a few aspirations are different. They’re the rosebuds in stasis which sit on the branch unopened as the garden around them waxes and wanes. As such they become objects of curiosity and nagging frustration. Day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year they sit there, inviting the eye to will them to open. And so it does, but still they hold their place, unrepentant and unyielding.
And then the mind begins to suspect that the bud is only a pristine husk; inside it is nothing but the browning detritus of a long-decayed flower-in-waiting. Eventually, even the eye begins to doubt the evidence of its own faculty. Maybe the husk itself is just a mirage, persistence of vision made manifest by a sense of something unfulfilled. Sometimes the rosebud vanishes at that point, and sometimes it doesn’t.