a story

It all took place in an unsteady time- a time in which perceptions and loyalties and identities avoid constancy, and the threat of leaving a place in which you once felt as though you could potentially have everything but to which time was allowed the opportunity to take hold of, forcing you to accept the possibility that you may leave with nothing, or no one.

The first time, she said, "I am not able to be strong on my own." So he initiated the arduous process of forcing death upon a thing not yet born, and he wounded it into submission and infancy within the confines of his subconscious, and kept it deep in his basement underneath dozens of unpacked boxes. And there it remained throughout the winter.

But when spring came, the rays of the sun penetrated deep into the caverns of his basement, and, one day, to his amazement, he discovered a green stem buried between several stacks of old books. It was the stem of that same seed, and it had started to grow. Believe me, it caught him quite off guard when he saw it. In fact, it startled him so much that he took a step back, and he questioned to himself whether what he was seeing was actually real.

Because, you see, he still didn't know much about her, but when you see that a girl's been crying all alone in the library, you ask if she's ok.

And so, for the moment, the weather was getting warmer, and the plant continued to grow as its sprouting leaves reached desperately towards the source of its life. It was then that the boy began to remember and realize that he had not completely destroyed the plant back in the fall, and suddenly began to realize that he couldn't really destroy the plant at all, even if he wanted to. The plant, in all its tenderness, made him feel terribly human, and he became suddenly aware of how it connected him to emotions he had forced under the surface for a long time.

Immediately he got a lamp and started unpacking all the closed boxes and rustling through the stacks of old books, all the while watching the plant, uncertain whether or not it would continue to grow.

And then, almost as suddenly as it had sprung up, in the middle of May, the plant died. The boy didn't know what to do, and he talked and cried, and was unsure of how he wanted his pain to be perceived by those around him. For, in some sense, he knew that he would be fine; he had lived years and years without this flower, or any plant, come to think of it, and he had not died. But the boy did not particularly want to go back to his life before the plant, a life in which he had suppressed his loneliness and need for other people, and retreated deeply into the shelter of his own bedroom. The fact was the plant had made him suddenly aware of both his emotions and his pride- he could actually feel now, and, even if all he felt was pain at the loss of his dearly loved plant, it was certainly better than feeling nothing at all. He struggled to understand what he should do, and he even worried when he started to feel ok, because this, for him, felt as though to some degree he was losing his humanity again, and would be forced to accept the numbness necessary to exist completely alone in this world. He wondered whether he would have to painfully repack all those old boxes, and restack all those old books, and he wondered whether he would have the patience to wait for things that were never promised, and whether or not he would, ultimately, die alone in this world, without any plant there to give him life.