Before I came to university, I took on a temporary job working at a florist. I had a romanticized idea that working in a shop selling flowers would be rainbows, butterflies and generally “not a lot of work." I was in for a shock on the first day, when I went home with multiple cuts and hands that were rubbed raw from handling all the blooms — I took it for granted that the roses would already have had their thorns removed, I just did not realised it was to be done by me. 
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I was in no way prepared for all the buckets of water I had to fetch from a communal sink that was too far away on a separate floor in a building with only staircases, or the number of stems I had to prune on an hourly basis, or the amount of dirt that would permanently wedge itself under my nails. Most of all, I was not prepared for the people - from the guy who would have African violets delivered every day to his wife who had just given birth to their first child, to the lady who requested for specially dyed rainbow roses for her mother’s funeral after a long battle with cancer, to the husband who had angrily called the store — demanding to know which other man had sent red roses and a love letter addressed to his wife. I took orders, gave bouquet suggestions and sometimes I even wrote messages for the customers themselves, when they asked what I thought was appropriate for the card to say. 
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People bought flowers when they were happy, and they bought flowers when they were sad too. There were flowers for every occasion: roses for Valentine's, carnations for Mother’s Day, white chrysanthemums for funerals. Flowers were available all year round, to celebrate the highs of living, and to comfort during the lows. Somehow, I became intertwined with the lives of the customers through the nature of my job. Their stories wove themselves into mine, and stayed with me long after I had went home for the day. I had a front row seat to all that went on in their lives, and I learnt that life truly was a rollercoaster. I shouldn’t have been surprised; after all, I've had my fair share of ups and downs too. 
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What would a teenager know about happiness? She hasn’t lived long enough to understand its meaning. So young, so sheltered and so privileged, what would she know about pain and loss? 
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When I was three, I held hands with Happiness when my mother gave birth to my little brother. I remember pulling out a bunch of Ixora flowers from the hospital garden and handing it to her when she was wheeled out of the delivery room. Sure I fought with my brother sometimes, but we were close and I couldn’t ask for a better, more thoughtful sibling. 
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When I was nine, Sorrow held me in a tight embrace as I bade farewell to my paternal grandfather for the last time, watching them through dazed eyes as they closed the lid of the coffin. Even after all these years, I still have the fake orange rose that I took out of his funeral garland and kept as remembrance. I knew that to be human was to be mortal, but this was the first time I met Death in such close proximity. Deep down, however, I knew that as time passed and the ones around me grew older, I would only end up making its acquaintance.
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When I was twelve, Excitement lifted me up and spun me around when I learnt that I did well enough for PSLE to enter my dream school. I remember gaping in awe at the sheer beauty of my new surroundings. With willow trees skirting around the perimeter of the school lake, swaying ever so gracefully in the wind, the whole place looked like scene out of a Chinese painting. I couldn’t stop smiling — this was the beginning of the rest of my life. 
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When I was thirteen, Love stuck his foot out and tripped me. Tenpin Bowling seemed like a strange CCA choice to everyone at first, but it was my safe space. I made lovely friends in a new environment, but more importantly, I found something that would help me relax and prevent my otherwise noisy and less than lovely thoughts from ringing incessantly in my mind. I fell hard for a sport indeed. 
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When I turned fifteen and nothing was going right, Disgust decided it would be a good idea to taunt me everywhere I went. He prodded my belly and squeezed my cheeks, and made me obsessed with how I looked. He mocked my grades, scoffed at everything I did and chanted “YOU’RE NEVER GOING TO MAKE ANYTHING OUT OF YOURSELF” over and over again right next to my ear. He would sit smirking on the toilet bowl as I cried in the shower every other night. Even the succulents I kept on my desk wilted from neglect. 
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My seventeenth birthday came and went, and I spent the entire year handcuffed to Shame. I didn’t do well for my O Levels this time, and I ended up in a school that wasn’t of my choice. In fact, I was sure this place wasn’t anyone’s choice. Every single one of my secondary school classmates went on to prestigious colleges, and here I was. Forgotten. Left behind in the dust, in the marathon I had thought we were running together. It seems silly to be so devastated and ashamed, but to a girl whose entire life up till that point had revolved around school, who validated herself, her intelligence and her abilities with her grades, it was the end of the world. 
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When I turned twenty, I visited a tulip exhibition with two of my closest friends to celebrate. The entire place was like a kaleidoscope of colours — so vibrant, so full of vitality, so alive. The life that runs through nature and emerges from the buds of these tulips also pulses through my veins. I like to believe I am the best version of myself so far. For everything I did I had Tenacity cheering me on. Every time I glanced at the mirror I could see Confidence beaming back at me. I found some of my best friends in the place I had so vehemently hated, and I moved into a new place to do something that made my heart swell with passion.
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For all the good days life permits you, it sends just enough days of rain to even it all out.
This is what it means to be alive. Even in the most literal sense, if there were no ups and downs on the heart monitor, we would all flatline and cease to exist. 
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Nothing can last forever. Even the prettiest, most well-kept flowers will die. 

How startlingly beautiful impermanence can be.