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The Life of a Spectator

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The Life of a Spectator

I grew. I grew up out of the dust and into the sunlight, the air, the land. I sprouted leaves and buds; my roots grew deep. I knew the names of the flowers beside me, and could identify the calls of the birds.

I was transplanted one day. I was torn out of my soil, to a place far across the garden; an unknown territory. Not all of my roots came with me: when I was ripped from the ground, many of them broke off and remained there. It rained and rained and rained on my new plot of soil; my leaves became sodden and my blossoms faded. I longed for my old home, and my torn roots bled into the ground.

But one day, the sun shone. My leaves drank in the warmth, and my blossoms turned their faces to the sun. My healed roots stretched out and enjoyed the feeling of the rich soil. Many other flowers began to grow around me; their delicate fragrances filled the air.

I began to thrive.

There were still rainy days, and days of sleet and snow and wind, but I was no longer alone. The sun filled my days with light—even if hidden behind clouds—and the moon shone down on me at night.

Life was not perfect, but it was pleasant. My days had a rhythm to them that sounded like poetry. I was content to count the dewdrops on the grass and cared not of the things elsewhere.





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