Dried Flowers

Dried flowers have a quality of their own. They suddenly remind us of some forgotten moment we once experienced, the memory of which still lingers, like the remembrances of a lonely sea shore.

Out of nowhere, when you are reading an old book or a diary you will come across this dried piece of a flower stuck to page 159 leaving almost an incomprehensible stain on some words & an even fainter smell of how the flower once smelled. Then you are literally forced to go down memory lane thinking about the moment in which you were young & someone loved you enough to give you just one wild flower, & was naive & innocent enough to not care how one wild flower compared to a decorated bouquet of gardened flowers. That kind of innocence is inevitably lost when you enter your 25-26+. Love is no longer the moment of spontaneity but it turns to something more trained & practiced. Frankly, I never got a bouquet in my life, except for once, to appreciate what a bouquet of lilies or something more extravagant would make you feel, but I miss the times when suddenly out of the blue my childhood buddy would pick me a wild lilac looking bush from the side of the street just cause he felt I should know how it smelt & to admire the walk we were glad to have from our way back from school. I miss the moment when my little brother bicycled in the scorching sun to show me this bright yellow (yellow is my fav. colour) flower that he had found in one of the playgrounds he was playing.

Perhaps its the end of an era where wild absurd flowers will find their way to random books. No one will ever suddenly find an old dried flower on a lazy afternoon while re-reading one of their old favorites.