They say the white rose is a symbol of innocence.
It’s clear how that works. The absence of color supposedly equates innocence…then does that mean colors — the elements so endearing in my heart, the only things that framed and shaped my world — is a symbol of contamination?
I say, the white rose is a symbol of naivety.
Surrounded by aphids thirsty for sweetness, a selfish multitude draining the life force of the dearest white rose. It has thorns, yes, but what is a thorn that pricks only my hand as I tried to squish the bloodsuckers against the particles that multiplied and covered all pores regardless?
So blind, so naive: that is the white rose, untainted by the colors of life that is good and splendid.