They remind me of flowers. Pressed flowers, to be exact.

Plucked young at their peaks and crushed betweek the pages of a heavy book, or in this case a magazine, pressured to retain that which was only ever meant to be a passing beauty. They cling to that one ephemeral moment, trying to preserve it for as long as possible.

It strikes me as such a sad and pointless struggle. It's unnatural, even. No matter how much pressure they're under, their colors will fade, and their petals will dry out and become brittle to the touch. All that will remain is a nearly two dimensional impression of something that's no longer real. Faded away, despite all their efforts. The moment they fought so hard to preserve will lose that key element that made it so desirable in the first place.

True, their petals do not wilt or fall away. They aren't trampled beneath careless feet. Their petals aren't pulled off one by one by lovesick hands...but is it worth it?

Pressed flowers don't get to bask in the sunshine, or sway in the wind or bathe in the rain. They don't get to feed bees and butterflies and hummingbirds. They will never be tucked behind a childs ear or given as a sign of affection.

I'll ask again- is it worth it? Sure, pressed flowers are nice to look at...but in the end, they're still dead. Locked between the pages of some book somewhere, sitting on a shelf instead of soaking up the sun.



-jaz-