The Consciousness of a Houseplant
She Knows Sun. She Knows Water. She Is Content.
I tilt toward the sun. That is enough.
My world is a windowsill, a patch of sky, a bowl of soil. I feel without thinking, grow without rushing. You pass in blurs of worry—I wait, rooted, radiant, in the only life I know.
What I'm Into: the angle of morning light, the cool gift that comes from above, watching a leaf unfurl, city grime on waxy green, being perfectly still
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