Many times it has told me it would prefer to be outside, to rot in rudderless rain or freeze in hilarious hailstorms. Though short-lived, that would be the best way to replicate its natural existence.
“Don’t talk gibberish. It would be your death,” invariably was my response. Stubborn human that I am, I continued with the sure-fire recipe for three parts agony, one part joy.
“You need to stop watching me suffer!” the potted plant just now muttered. (Hypothesis 1: plants in captivity think more clearly than humans, and their advice provides valuable life lessons.)
“You’re not suffering, you drama queen. Those little sprouts of joy are telling me otherwise.”
The brown leaves rustle. The potted plant is depressed by the heavy burden of its past living on to twart the present.
“Lady, you need to take into account the whole of me. And while you’re at it, take into account the whole of you. Waiting for the little sprouts of joy is kinda cruel. Start pruning. End captivity. Save our souls.”
I hesitate. The plant eggs me on: “Go on! I might even bloom again.”
Yeah, you might. The question seems to be: do I want you to bloom? (Hypothesis 2: middle-aged women at infuriatingly sad cross-roads in their lives are lousy caretakers.)