My desk is quite large. So, apart from the computer and some commonly used stationery, it still feels a bit empty.
I bought a white flower pot with a yellow cat lying on the front, and under the cat's paw are several cartoon font characters, cute.
When strands of coconut shell soil were filled in, the already heavy flower pot became even more substantial. With a white body, a tray padded with old newspapers of unknown years, and a few smudges of soil hanging on the edge, it formed a small landscape that was not exquisite but enough to be pleasing to the eye, embellishing a corner of the desk.
Later, I hastily dug a few small pits and threw in a few seeds.
The seller insisted that they were jasmine, and when they bloomed, they would be fragrant and pleasant.
The buyer said they were just weeds, with only green leaves and no elegance.
I didn't really care, as long as it could add a bit of green to the monotonous space. At almost no cost, the shipping time and final quality became somewhat negligible.
I watered it and saw the brownish-yellow soil slowly turn reddish-brown. It was somewhat relieving, as if it didn't matter anymore whether anything could grow. So, I didn't pay much attention to the development inside the flower pot.
After all, my desk is still spacious, so it's understandable that I'm too lazy to get up and take a look.
Of course, watering was only done once. Going to work, coming back from work, going out, coming back... there were always too many things consuming a person's energy and spirit, and I only needed a decoration in the first place.
Until that day, like countless other days, I was nestled in my chair, sipping a drink, and casually glanced at a corner of the desk.
Something had changed. I saw two small leaves poking out of the flower pot.
They were a dull green color, slightly curled, and looked wrinkled, reminding me of soaked beans. A thin, long, red stem held them up, rising above the white ceramic wall, holding up the still-unopened leaves, entering a wider world.
I was genuinely happy for a while and gave them water and fertilizer.
Eat, drink. If there really are flowers that can bloom, it would indeed be a beautiful thing.
I mentioned before that my desk is quite large. To be more specific, it is long and narrow.
The long and narrow desk is naturally placed in a long and narrow room.
At the other end of the long and narrow room is a window next to the bed.
Today, in the morning, bathed in artificial light, I inadvertently caught sight of the once beloved plant again.
It has grown longer, but only longer.
Still, the leaves are dull green, although they seem to have grown a bit bigger, they are still wrinkled and unhealthy.
Still, the red stem is slender. It has at least doubled in length, but it is still so delicate that one worries it might break right under their eyes. The precious leaves are still held at the top, although there are only two, it can be seen that it has exerted all its strength to support them.
The entire stem has already bent, losing its former towering momentum. Now, it resembles an octopus tentacle, curving into a round and large arc, pressing itself towards the other side: the direction of the window.
I picked up a glass of water and poured the leftover water from last night into the flower pot, then for the first time, I picked it up and gently placed it under the equally long and narrow window.
The city I am in is also large, so large that there are countless people rushing around, countless tasks to handle, so large that I can't even take it out to bask in the sun.
Today is Sunday, but I have to work.
I walked out of the apartment and immersed myself in the morning.
The sunlight wasn't very good, and there was a damp smell of grass by the roadside.
The gray-white clouds in the sky were moving, as if they hadn't woken up yet.
Suddenly, I felt that there was no need to bring that pot of plant out.
I am it, and it is me.