chrysanthemum tea (an extended metaphor)
Chrysanthemum, I hate it, I love it, I hate it. Love me to hate me, if you will.
I hate it, I hate it, I hate the taste after drinking it. The aftertaste is bitter, a bit medicinal, and distant. I despise it.
It's not even tied to a special part of me - it's just disgusting, soaked flowers, so why do I keep going back to it?
I love oolong tea and 红茶 as well. However, chrysanthemum tea.. how can I say it? It's like in a sea of voices singing A flat, it's whispering G-sharp quietly, yet loud enough that you can't ignore. Not everything beautiful has to be pleasant, right? It's that kind of feeling.
I soak it when the water is too hot to drink, and I drink it when it's hot. But when it's cooled down, almost cold, and I haven't finished it - that's when it becomes more distant, rather than bittersweet.
It mirrors the way time dulls intensity, especially with emotions so intensely felt, such as love for example. Or, more accurately, a breakup, not necessarily romantic, even. Grief. I guess after a while the emotion dulls, and you become apathetic.
Chrysanthemum tea, especially as it cools, loses that delicate sweetness it has at first and turns sharper, more medicinal, almost stubborn. It’s like it refuses to stay pleasant.
It's the perfect metaphor, isn't it? toast this post