Teardrops and Tequila

what a beautiful flower you are

I often find myself wondering why the best people die. Yet if I were to walk into a garden, without any hesitation, I would pick the most beautiful flowers I could find.
From the second we're born, we're working just to die. The time span of one's life being uncertain can either be seen as beautiful, a tragedy, or a beautiful tragedy. Some are born unknowingly with merely a pocket watch of time in this realm, others with a handful of clocks.

But it's the footprints we leave in others lives as this invisible timer with a number we don't know ticks, and ticks, and ticks- that has me walking in circles. Why are the lucky ones granted more time? Or are we even the lucky ones?

You grow old just to watch everyone around you die. You sit back and wilt as every beautiful rose, tulip, dandelion, sunflower, and daisy are plucked from the garden. You're now a weed, in an empty basin of dirt, wondering what was so beautiful about having the longest invisible timer.
Is the agony and suffering of watching every domino topple worth the glory of being the last domino standing? How is the glory even celebratory if you're all alone?

So I ask myself, again-why do all of the best people die? But "best" is all about perspective, and maybe I'm the next "best" for someone else. I've been the flower, in my own garden; watching the prettier ones get picked one by one as I shrivel slowly. Little do I know, with a switch of perspective I could very well be the next rose to die in someone else's garden as they get the "privilege" of wilting a little longer than me.

And it's all just a waiting game. You're either alive, rotting inside as those around you are stripped one by one or you're dead, unbothered as too if all the other domino's fell. So who's really living? Who's really lucky here?
How ironic we make sure funerals have beautiful flowers.