automatons

There’s something wrong with the others. I’ve been watching them for a while now, and I find it rather queer that they remain oblivious of their nature.

Fools!

A little girl came traipsing through here, picking us one by one, and I noticed she had a preference for the larger, fully bloomed of us. Some were caught off guard, of course. I can’t say anything about them. But those that weren’t made no attempt to avoid catastrophe, that is, death. Silly plants. They gave in to their primitive reaction to open up to the sun, which is an undeniably delightful experience, to be sure; still, when I saw that little picker coming, I shriveled, I closed, I avoided catastrophe. No others made the same effort. This is typical of them.

Once I tried to explain the importance of the rain to them, but they turned their faces away. It cleans, it nourishes, I said, but they wouldn’t have it. They hate the rain. It pummels their delicate textures, it overwhelms their roots, but this is because they reject their nature.

They’re miserable organisms, cheery only to each other, but I suspect they hate everything—especially life.

I don’t feel bad for them. I used to pity them, but now there is only a numbness, an indifference. Intuitive plants. They sense this; they think I am harsh.

Indeed I am.

I lost another petal yesterday. The bees don’t seem to want to eat from me as much now, and the other flowers find that amusing. They like to see me suffer.

I am alone, surrounded by automatons.

In desperation, I opened up to the moon. It felt nothing like the sun. It was cold, uncomfortable, but I wanted to know. The others were horrified. What things they said! And I’m the harsh one?

But I’ve been making progress with myself. The others don’t even notice, they never notice me, but I’ve figured out how to move. Yes, move. At first it was barely a quiver in my roots, but so far I’ve managed to move a whole three inches. I am getting stronger now. The earth cannot stop me. I imagine a quieter field, a field with no pickers and reasonable plants—plants that understand the necessity of rain. Yes! It’s only a small matter of time. Three inches today, four inches tomorrow. I rather enjoy this moving business.