There’s something horribly ugly about fake flowers. Even the most beautifully crafted, true-to-real flower can’t escape the obscenity true to every fake flower. What is that obscenity? What is that unignorable ugliness? It is how they are vacant of change; how they do not age, and come to eventual death. Their never-ending plastic poise, or paper composure, is precisely the reason why fake flowers can never truly be beautiful.
This brings us to the question—Can there be beauty without death? If you knew that something would be there forever, perpetually, would it still be beautiful? Would you want to breathe it all in right now, if you knew it’ll be there waiting tomorrow, day after, and after…? There can be no beauty without death. Because, the one and only true sign of life—the very premise of all things love and beauty—is death itself.
If you ever grow tired of being mortal, just stay up and watch the stars alone. Locked in their light are memories of a billion-billion light-years ago. They will soak you in the echoes of when the black night burnt; of when our sun was a star child; of when the Earth was a morsel of dust caught in a whirlwind of gravity; and of when, in her void, she first remembered that she too, can be.
Stretching into the distance, you will sense what is yet to come, in ways that your flesh eyes can ever see, think or feel. In the quiet between the stars you will see black holes— even the very depth that will one day devour this memory of you, watching the stars on the balcony. It’s all there. Immortal. It has always been.