Velvet Against the Gray

A short poem-like story inspired by Albert Camus’ absurdism.

On a high cliff above the ocean, a rose grows from stone. The waves crash against the rocks below, and the wind drifts across the silence. The sky is gray and without end.

Nothing changes. The sea moves as it always has. The wind carries on without pause. Only the rose seems to measure time, returning every once in a while. No one waits for it. No one sees it. Still, it opens.

It is small. A drop of velvet against the gray. For a brief moment, it feels as though it is the center of the world. It thinks that it is destined. But the world does not notice, and the moment soon withers away.

The petals fall. The stem bends back to the stone. The sea does not care. The wind does not slow. Almost instantly, or maybe after an eternity, comes another rose, the same as the last.

Here is the absurd: the rose blooms for no reason, and its beauty serves no purpose. Yet in its repetition there is a strange kind of romance. Each rose shines as if to declare that life is worth living, even without meaning.

Each bloom is brief, and each is soon forgotten. But in its defiance of silence and gray, the rose becomes something more than futile – it becomes free. The transient hue of velvet amidst this gray void might not matter to you, yet it is epic for the rose.

The sea does not care. The wind does not slow. Yet the rose refuses to subdue to the absorbing gray. That is romantic, and that is heroic. Perhaps that is enough.