Love stories of the past are like wilted flowers. Their time – and season – has ended. They were wonderful while they lasted, but they had a due date. And it has expired.
We need to let them go. Throw them out so that we have space to bring in new ones. Fresh, colourful, scented, alive. Ones that remind us that there is a bright future ahead and it’s up to us to make it prosperous.
We can remember, but it should not affect us. Perhaps that is the hardest to master.
Some flowers last forever; those we should nourish.
Also part of Friday Fictioneers