I remember, as far back as maybe third grade, I have collected pressed flowers.
Very recently I opened the two books I have always kept these flowers in and flipped through the whole collection and reflected on what started the collection in the first place.
I can’t think of any specific reason.
With no intention, not even an end goal to what I would use them for or even for their aesthetic value as pressed flowers, I selectively collected particular ones which seemed to strike me in that moment. In a way, they were compulsive, even as I say they were selected I feel as if the action is compulsory.
They hold no specific memories of places, times, or people. They are not particularly sentiment for the reasons of memory, but they are sentiment because I chose them and I kept them. Somehow, they mean something to me.
These reasons could be merely forgotten or they could have never existed in the first place. Here is where my research starts:
- Reflections of the temporary nature of fragile things in the wild, in nature, and how that creates preciousness.