To preserve something then is to hold something in place, in a sense. It is to at least temporarily slow its dispersion into ambient energy, which takes energy extracted from one's surroundings, subtracted as it were, to add to the preserved body in question. As something becomes preserved, it becomes an obstruction, around which life flows on. Which is just fine. One looks over the living landscape, and one finds matter in various states of flow, of transitions, of stable, preserved states and dispersing, breaking-apart states.
The tendency, at least for this closed solar system, is for concentrated energy to flow and disperse outward. The question arises as to where the concentrated energy comes from in the first place, and there are plenty of theories attempting to answer that question.
One way to consider it is in the form of memory. As energy concentrates, there are excited particles which transfer their "excitement," which tends to decay as it bleeds into space, but which also retains memory. Memory in this sense could be understood in the negative, for a transgression, or a concentration of energy that forces itself past the tensile forces of thermodynamic equilibrium, creates as a complement a region of energetic lack, with its own varying gradients of concentration, which sits at the ready to accept an incoming flood of energy at the closest opportunity. Nature abhors a vacuum and all that.
And so every transgression is repaid in some form, and everything that is preserved must eventually dissolve, that the more preserved something is, the higher potentials for its dissolution climb, so that something that seems as if should last forever grows ever more brittle with time, and inches ever closer to the brink of rapid dissolution.
More esoteric writing; a bit simplistic perhaps. But worth sketching out for later I think.
