There’s something impermanent about memory. Just as a flower is born, memory is born. You can’t always see the exact moment it happens: nature moves too slowly, too undetectable for that, like when you blink, did you really miss anything at all?
Just as the flower grows and blossoms against the warm embrace of the sun, so memory is created. It is both born, created and resigned to the past in an instant. The flower will never again look the same as it did a second ago.
Change the light, change the angle of perspective, even the perception of the viewer, and the flower changes. But it is still the same flower. As the arrow of time must dictate, the flower will grow and it will peak, then, its petals will softly brown, its leaves will become too heavy with the weight of time, and eventually, they will fall.
The flower’s beauty is in its impermanence, its dynamism, and its response to the changing environment. Take a look at memories before the sun rises, in a room only half-lit by consciousness and rationality, and take a look again as the last orange glow fades from view. The same memory, seen a million different ways.
As the flower changes, so too does memory change. What appeared so strong and so vivid starts to blur at the edges. The order of events falls into disorder – but not chaos – but the essence of the flower endures.
The flower lives on.
Note: The flower included with this painting is a surviving stem from my wedding day.