The flowers stood proudly on the table, drawing everyone to its magnificence, with its entrancing smell.

Beauty seemed to last forever. Colors slowly faded gray, baby soft petals wrinkled and hanging limply. No one like gray wrinkled flowers, no more holding still the purpose of beauty.

I stood in the pale blue room surrounded by memories in frames, my white willowing dress flowed around my thighs with the breeze coming through the open window. My mother’s favorite Windchime echoing around the room, fairy dust in wind stream.

As I stood by the table I realized life was like flowers, not as short, but as beautiful.

Some flowing down a sparkling blue stream. Others down a treacherous leech infested river. My life was neither exciting nor boring, just like the flowers, viewed to death. The beautiful organism still viewed even in its weathered gray existence of uselessness till the end.

I realized I didn’t want to be the flowers sitting still in a see-through vase. Viewed till I no more had worth. I wanted to be beautiful until death, even after.