I’ve always been fond of forgotten, overlooked things.
You know…those that are just a little too plain for the spotlight, a little too quirky, not so refined, just a little…off.
Looking over my photos, I suddently noticed how many images of unknown, blue flowers I have. Floral macro shots have always been a staple in my travels, but the forgotten blues…I seem to have an innate affinity for, evidently.
There are wispy blues…
Each of these was stumbled upon unbeknownst by me, in a patch of untended soil somewhere in a forgotten corner, an abandoned crack, or an overlooked sidewalk. Unnoticed by the masses, they are outcasts in their own floral company. Beside them often stood beautiful roses and manicured petals, stunning in their bright colors and passionate hues. What can the little blue flowers do? They can’t change who they are. They don’t want to. They stand alone, glorious in their serenity.
I don’t even like blues. It’s a depressing color…too cool to suit my temperament, and too plain to match my closet. If one lacks a preference for a particular color, one often grasps for blue. If a man is at a lost for a tie or a shirt, the safe bet is to go for a shade of blue. Blue is calming. Blue is safe. Blue is…boring.
Yet time and time again, I find myself drawn to the little blue flowers. The wispy, dreamy, forgotten blues. They linger, and stretch into an endless blanket of silky memoirs that wrap around my consciousness like a cocoon that engulfs the butterfly. The sleep is so enticing. The metamorphosis natural.
Then…sometimes, I catch a sight so perfect, a shade of blue so true, bathed in a light so moving, that its plainness is transformed into the deepest, most trembling hue that I can ever imagine. And I am captured.
And it is no longer forgotten.