Water has no effect on fake flowers. They glimmer, they shine, they sway—but they do not drink. They cannot drink. They cannot bleed. They cannot grow. They are hollow, beautiful, untouchable… and dead inside.

People like that exist everywhere. They smile. They charm. They laugh. They look alive. And yet, nothing penetrates them. No kindness, no truth, no fire, no storm. Their hearts are porcelain, their veins empty, their souls a decorative lie.

They thrive on imitation. They flourish on applause. They bloom only for attention, never for life. And the world feeds them, praises them, envies them. Because shallow beauty is easier to admire than depth.

You can pour oceans over them. You can spill your blood, your tears, your warmth. And they will glisten, yes—but only on the surface. Only for show. Only as long as you look. The water never reaches them. The life never touches them.

They are impervious. They are untouchable. They are the masks that never fall, the lies that never bend, the shadows that never cast shade. And they call it strength. I call it poison.

Do not be fooled. Their charm is a trap. Their beauty is a lie. Their perfection is a cage. The world celebrates them, envying the emptiness they parade, never noticing the rot inside their roots.

You will try to nurture them. You will try to love them. You will try to save them. And you will discover the bitter truth: some things cannot be saved. Some hearts cannot be reached. Some souls cannot drink.

They are fake flowers. They thrive in illusion, in pretense, in shallow applause. They will outlast storms, yes—but only because storms cannot touch what is already dead inside.

They envy the living. They mock the bleeding. They belittle the rooted. They do not understand struggle. They do not understand growth. They do not understand love, or truth, or fire.

Yet they are rewarded. They are praised. They are admired. And the ones who bleed, who root, who fight and fall and rise—they are overlooked, ignored, even attacked, for daring to live while others only pretend.

Do not envy them. Do not imitate them. Do not bend to their hollow standards. Their imperviousness is not strength. Their emptiness is not perfection. Their survival is not life.

Water may drown you. Water may sting. Water may crush the weak. But for those who are rooted, for those who bleed and grow, for those who embrace storms and thirst and chaos—water is life. Water is power. Water is truth.

Fake flowers cannot drink storms. Fake flowers cannot absorb sunlight. Fake flowers cannot bend without breaking. Fake flowers cannot survive the fury of real life—they only shimmer while it passes them by.

Look at them closely. Watch the hollow sway. See the charm that deceives. Hear the laughter that echoes emptiness. They are alive in appearance only. Dead in essence. A parade of lies.

And they will envy you. They will mock you. They will whisper that your struggle is foolish, your blood is wasted, your storms are unnecessary. Let them. Their envy cannot harm the rooted. Their mockery cannot drain the alive.

They are decoration. They are illusion. They are shadows wearing petals. And they will never know the miracle of roots, the thrill of growth, the fire of living despite pain.

To be alive is dangerous. To bleed is dangerous. To thirst, to struggle, to grow, to fight against storms—it is dangerous. But it is life. And life is fire. Life is water. Life is blood.

You will bloom where they never could. You will bend where they would shatter. You will drink storms, drink sunlight, drink life—and grow in ways they cannot fathom.

Fake flowers are everywhere, but they do not matter. They are wind-chimes without song, mirrors without reflection, masks without meaning. They survive, yes—but they never live.

And you? You are alive. You are rooted. You are thirsty. You are bleeding. You are fire and storm and water and truth. You are real. And that is more than any fake flower could ever hope to be.