heavy on the metaphor

If you follow me on Snapchat (hicklory), you’d know about Steve. If you’ve read this post, you’d know about Steve. In case that sounds too cryptic, Steve is the plant I have that sits on my window sill in JB. I water him every fortnight because he’s succulent. I talk to him sometimes. I pretend he wants to leave for an adventure but is incapable of doing it because he’s stuck in that little pot. My parents and I bought Steve and another one that looks like him earlier this year. Steve has stayed with me for the past four months or so and he’s thriving. Unfortunately, the Steve lookalike is currently a sad, shriveling, brown skeleton of its former self, in a large vase right outside our front door.

My mom asked me once, ‘how does your plant survive? Ours at home is dying.’ My answer was what I mentioned before: a little shower every two weeks, the sunlight that pours into my room and little one-sided conversations.

But I came home to find the doppleganger dead.

It’s silly for me to be a little sad about it. Sometimes, a lot of water, or a lot of sun, and maybe too much noise from the outside suffocates a plant. Maybe too much is simply that: it was too much. Maybe what is called for in life, is some restraint.

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