It all starts with me, as nothing more than a tiny seed, a shell waiting for me to grow and blossom into what destiny intended me to be. I can sense something warm, gentle, and kind guiding me into my blanket of protection. It will serve me well until I become ready to burst forth and take root in my earthly home. I can feel the smile in her face, the radiant beam almost as powerful as the warm sun. That same sun showers so much of its care upon myself and my compatriots alongside me. That single moment lifts me beyond anything, even the next period, a time of darkness.
Over time, I feel the sweet treatise of water coaxing me to grow more and more, the tender care of the mare showering it upon my home and giving the simple liquid the power to bring me closer and closer to the surface. Now, it’s time. In a flourish, I poke the tip of my stem above the soil, the tiny leaves marking my entrance into the world and taking in the glorious sunlight pouring down from above. No word beyond perfect describes this feeling. What the insects tell me is called a pony takes care of me, took care of me from the very beginning, and that pony gives me the chance to grow.
I still remember that day. Those little insects, they told me all about how the pony cuts flowers away from their plants and gives them to other ponies in exchange for some coins. I didn’t believe them, and I still don’t!
Rose - that’s what the insects say is on her body, I assume it represents her name - treats me kindly. She gives me the water, and I drink it and her love in greedily. Not once has she clipped one of my precious, precious flowers away! Each and every year, they become fertilized and my children grow inside the fruit that I so laboriously surround them with. I hope that they survive and grow to become beautiful rose plants of their own. It’s rather interesting, that the one taking care of me is called Rose.
This sensation is odd, beyond anything I can remember feeling ever before. Rose feels different. Her smile still carries that beautiful feeling of radiance and warmth, but something waits disastrously behind it. It feels cold and dark, like the pain of loss I feel every time one of my poor stalks must be removed to keep the rest of me from growing diseased multiplied many times over. Nothing gets me over the feeling that one very close to her withered, and I desire to reach out and comfort her. The feeling mystifies me. I never realized before how deep the attachment between us runs. I stretch out a tiny bit, reach my leaves and petals and stems, all of my being, toward her. She takes notice of my valiant stretch, and soon after that I feel a light brushing graze on one of my flowers, what I now know to be a kiss. My colors brighten, and I reach out to the sun, bathing in its glorious light, and grow a few inches that day alone.
After what seems like ages, Rose feels like her normal self again. I took up the habit of perfecting my ability to move myself, hoping to be able to make that pattern the insects keep talking about. Something special that happens and ponies that hold each other close share a certain shape, more often than not red in color. After getting them to prod me in the pattern, I begin my work.
With grueling drills strengthening my will and my body, my practice day in and day out begins to reach its close. After an entire year, and my buds sit arranged in the pattern.
She’s stunned! When my flowers bloomed, they took the shape of what I know to be a heart, a symbol of love and affection. I believe that her joy turned the heads of a few sunflowers, her radiance so bright it outstripped the sun in its decadent warmth. Even after I let the flowers fall back into their normal haphazard arrangement, she still feels a bit warmer than before, no matter what the occasion.
I hear it’s about to be cold again. I should be fine, though. Plenty of chilly seasons pass by with me coming out no worse for the wear. It will be just like the rest of them. Uneventful, with no flowers to tend. I suppose I’m left with time to consider the past.
It hurts so badly. I don’t even know why. One week, I’m just fine, but the next so many of my stems, so many of my leaves, they all burned with the fires of evil, while the rest of me felt as cool as ever. The insects do not understand. They paint out horrendous pictures of them being crushed or swatted away, having to fly back lazily and swerving the entire way. But this pain, this torment, this blistering agony feels like nothing I could’ve conceived. The soft timbre of Rose’s voice carries a normal tone of blissful ignorance while some unknown treachery plagues much of my body. Doesn’t she love me enough to carry me from this unbearable affliction?
I don’t know what happened. For some reason, the pain suddenly stopped. It’s not there anymore. But there’s a problem. I can’t feel where it was. I just know that the pain’s gone, but I don’t know what’s happening to the parts that were touched by that wretched torture. The weather’s a bit warmer now. I hope that I get those parts of me back.
The feeling came back to me today! I fear that the past winter may have been harsher than I thought. Rose clipped quite a few stems off, ones that had no feeling left in them whatsoever. I feel much cleaner now that the old and dead can make way for more growth.
There’s so much adoration around me! The insects say that more and more ponies visit Rose nowadays. They go in feeling rather odd, almost fearful. But then, they come back out, feeling much brighter, reassured. They also stop by me, to admire my flowers and pour their love. It’s nice, all this unbridled emotion. I make sure to move just a bit, almost as if waving, to acknowledge that I love them back. At least, that’s what I think this feeling is. It’s not pain nor joy nor sadness nor adoring - it’s something beyond anything I’ve ever felt before. Some of them get even happier, some even poke their muzzles into one of my flowers to take a whiff - I make sure to put out a bit extra smell, just for them.
The visiting stopped, for the most part. Rose comes out more frequently now, and she feels rejuvenated. I have a feeling that it’s been quite a long time since she first planted me into the ground. She goes about her rounds just a bit slower, just a bit more carefully. She still has that glorious beauty, even if I cannot see it. She’s also been talking quite a bit more recently. I never tire feeling her voice vibrate inside me. I haven’t been able to make out much of it other than her name and the emotion behind it. Even if I never understand the words she says, I’ll always love my Rose.
I’m still in shock. It’s just not possible. We’re moving. I can tell, because I’ve been put into a different piece of dirt, one that’s inside a restrictive container. The insects tell me that I’m the only plant she’s taking with her. But to be uprooted like I have, it’s left me feeling a bit empty.I’ll never be able to return to that garden, that special plot of land. Even if the small bit of soil where I was effectively born remains with me, I know that what I’m in now will be mixed in with the foreign dirt and other things wherever I may end up being.
Am I really me anymore? This new ground feels so odd, so wild, so dirty! It’s unclean, riddled with tiny rocks and the occasional bit of squishy, dead plants. I feel like I’ve been dropped into a cesspool of filth. Rose seems much happier, though. In fact, she seems positively radiant, as does the new pony she’s been bringing with her every day. I can tell that the new one is a male. I also can feel that Rose’s love grows immensely whenever he comes close. Unfortunately, he doesn’t feel the same to me as he does to her. His gaze, while appreciative, dismisses my presence as if I were just another piece of the environment and not a piece of Rose’s home. But then again, maybe I am just environment. After all, I’m no longer in my home. The area feels strange, and it certainly doesn’t have the same insects. These ones tell me about mindless things, like how good I smell or how much they loved another flower’s nectar. I feel like I’m just an object to these, and they certainly don’t tell me anything about this newcomer into Rose’s life and my own. I just don’t belong here. I think I’ll just wilt a bit, for now. Keeping everything tall and proud drains me.
She feels that way again. It’s been around a year since we’ve moved, and once again the pain and hurt she felt before comes to haunt. I laboriously reach myself out to her, and her hoof alights on my stem, stroking up toward a flower. She buries her head into my tangle of stems, and I do my best to make her feel comfortable and loved. I manage to tickle her nose slowly with one of my leaves, and she notices. I feel her sad voice transcend the gap between us, and I understand everything she says for a time after that. I know this pain. I’ve felt this pain. I weep with her, and understand her loss. It’s hard enough for me to lose a flower before it has a chance to become a fruit; I can only imagine what it would be like for a pony.
I learned a new emotion today. I felt it, from both Rose and her friend. I imagine it to be something like what I would feel if some of my leaves were taken from me by a passerby, something like being stolen from. They’re angry, and I don’t know what could possibly be wrong. They felt happy, joyous, loving, all of the bright emotions that made for growth and good life. Now, all of these dark emotions just make me want to wilt. They should be happy together, but they aren’t. Things should be different, but nothing I do will change them. I just watch as they tear themselves apart.
Rose’s friend still avoids the area. Ever since their fight, I haven’t felt him approach. It’s been long enough that Rose feels as bright and chipper as she normally does, and I’m happy for her. It makes my stems grow to see her bright light carry her through life.
I’ve noticed that Rose’s smile misses some of that luster it carried before. The amount of love stays the same, but the smile dims, and that spring in her step I feel every day begins to wear out. I hope she doesn’t wither. It would be such a horrible fate, to wither. Besides, I feel just as vibrant as ever! Surely ponies can just repair themselves in a snap. They can’t be that much different from plants, can they?
The friend finally came back today. I felt the apology before it came, even though I’m not really sure what exactly he said. Then they both stared at me, and sniffed some of my flowers, sharing with me their moment of bittersweet reconciliation and wistful remembrance. I wish I could share feelings with some of my children that way, if any of them are close by at all.
This winter lasted a bit longer than others. Rose seems to be a bit sicker. Her stops by my admittedly much larger area where I’m growing in keep falling in frequency. I do hope that she bounces back from this soon. Her radiance glows more beautifully than ever before. That’s a good sign, right?
Many, many ponies keep coming by today. I feel the same emotion, permuted dozens of different times, an emotion I’ve grown to dislike. They all feel as if they’ve lost something dear to them as well, but strangely enough I don’t feel Rose among the group. Where is she? I wonder if she’s okay?
It’s been a decade. I’m still waiting for Rose to come back, but she never has. The rain keeps me moist enough, but it doesn’t have that spark of love that made it special. The sun, brilliant as ever, shines over me every day, giving me the life-binding energy that I so desperately need. But I’ve lost another source of light. My Rose hasn’t returned. I thought she loved me. Why would she abandon me like that? Did I do something wrong? I really hope that she comes back someday, like how her friend came back. I would give my most beautiful flowers, my children, so that I could feel her blissful love on me again. It’s like the light just burned out. The only thing left for me is a patch of dirt where I wasn’t born, an area where I didn’t grow into myself, a sun that does nothing to light up the darkness where Rose used to shine, and rain that drips onto me without caring or love.
I know what happened now. It came to me a dozen years ago. She withered. My glorious, beautiful Rose withered away, just like so many others do. It’s no different than all of the plants I’ve felt grow and die around me. It’s no different from how I’m about to wither and die. I can feel it. The disease already has a grip of me; it’s just a matter of time until I’m nothing more than a loveless husk left on the ground to turn into food for the next cycle. Why is it, then, that I want to burn? I don’t want to go slowly anymore. I want the pain of holy fire to wipe me into ash, so that this pain, this emptiness can finally go away. Nothing can explain why I would want to be chained in the fires of bittersweet destruction, other than the fact that I loved a pony. I loved my Rose, and now I’m paying the price for it. The tortuous, drawn out, agonizing price. I do hope some of my children survived.
The insects stopped by again today. Even after so many generations, they still remember me. It’s heartwarming, to think that even with such short lifespans insects can pass along their knowledge and being into the next colony, and that they remembered me, of all plants, even taking their time to find me once again. It’s getting close, now.
I can feel myself going now. There’s not much more left of me that isn’t withering or withered. Maybe Rose can tend to me in her garden again. That would be such a treat. The insects came by again. They say my children are growing on her grave.
