Confessions of an Impatient Seedling

I am waiting, not very
patiently.

I fell into the ground some time ago, you see,
and have been all but forgotten.

In the darkness I feel myself dissolve,
the shell that once protected me turn to ash.
I am alone.

Soil fills my lungs, damp and mixed with shit
and death and I’m gasping for air,
screaming for air, choking but
there’s no air, no sound.

I am dying.
I am sure I am dying.
This must be what dying feels like.

I want
to feel the sun on what’s left of my skin.
God, I would give anything to feel
the sun again.

Am I growing?
I am not sure I am growing.
This couldn’t possibly be what growing feels like.

I am terrified,
you see.

You say that I will not grow without
the sun and the rain, but what if
they disappear?

What if
the sun has stopped shining?

What if
the rain has stopped falling?

Am I growing?
I don’t feel any different
than yesterday.

Surely there must be something I can do to
make the sun shine on,
make the rain fall down,
so I can grow. So I can find
my way to the surface.

I must find my way to the surface.
I must.

You talk of leaves and stems and something called
“flowers” but I cannot imagine.
I cannot imagine anything but trying

to find the surface where dirt and ash and
dead leaves and worm shit give way
to warm air.

I’m not going to make it.
Please, just dig me up.

Dig me up and lay me gently on
top of the dirt so that I can feel
the sun on my face and
the rain on what’s left
of my skin.

Please don’t.

I want to grow, you see. I want to grow.
But I don’t feel any different
than yesterday.

How do I make the rain fall?

How do I make the sun shine?

[ image: Chiot’s Run ]

Confessions of an Impatient Seedling

February 15, 2015 | 2 minute read

<strong>Confessions of an Impatient Seedling</strong>
<br/><br/>
<em>God, I would give anything to feel the sun again.</em><br/><br/>

I am waiting, not very
patiently.

I fell into the ground some time ago, you see,
and have been all but forgotten.

In the darkness I feel myself dissolve,
the shell that once protected me turn to ash.
I am alone.

Soil fills my lungs, damp and mixed with shit
and death and I’m gasping for air,
screaming for air, choking but
there’s no air, no sound.

I am dying.
I am sure I am dying.
This must be what dying feels like.

I want
to feel the sun on what’s left of my skin.
God, I would give anything to feel
the sun again.

Am I growing?
I am not sure I am growing.
This couldn’t possibly be what growing feels like.

I am terrified,
you see.

You say that I will not grow without
the sun and the rain, but what if
they disappear?

What if
the sun has stopped shining?

What if
the rain has stopped falling?

Am I growing?
I don’t feel any different
than yesterday.

Surely there must be something I can do to
make the sun shine on,
make the rain fall down,
so I can grow. So I can find
my way to the surface.

I must find my way to the surface.
I must.

You talk of leaves and stems and something called
“flowers” but I cannot imagine.
I cannot imagine anything but trying

to find the surface where dirt and ash and
dead leaves and worm shit give way
to warm air.

I’m not going to make it.
Please, just dig me up.

Dig me up and lay me gently on
top of the dirt so that I can feel
the sun on my face and
the rain on what’s left
of my skin.

Please don’t.

I want to grow, you see. I want to grow.
But I don’t feel any different
than yesterday.

How do I make the rain fall?

How do I make the sun shine?

[ image: Chiot’s Run ]

oh shit it's a signup form!

put your email address here and I'll send you new stuff when I write it.
Something went wrong. Please check your entries and try again.
Shares