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. Under the cat's paw, there are several cartoon font characters, cute.
When strands of coconut shell soil were filled in, the already heavy flower pot became even more substantial. The white body, the tray padded with old newspapers of unknown years, and the patches of soil hanging on the edge, together 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 there was a bit of green to add some color to the monotonous space. At almost no cost, the shipping time and final quality became somewhat negligible.
I watered them and saw the brownish-yellow soil slowly turn reddish-brown. It seemed to relieve some stress, and it seemed that it didn't matter whether anything could grow or not. 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 are always too many things that consume 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 my 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, unhealthy shade of green, slightly curled up, looking like soaked beans. A thin, long, red stem held them up, rising above the white ceramic wall, holding up the not yet fully opened 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 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 glass window next to the bed.
Today, in the morning, bathed in artificial light, I inadvertently caught sight of the once beloved plant.
It has grown longer, but only longer.
Still, it has dull green leaves, although they seem to have grown a bit larger, they are still wrinkled and unhealthy.
Still, it has a slender red stem, which has at least doubled in length, but it is still so delicate that one worries it might snap at any moment; the precious leaves are still held at the top, although there are only two, it is evident that it has exerted all its strength to support them.
The entire stem has long bent, losing its former upright posture. Now, it resembles the tentacles of an octopus, forming a smooth and large curve, 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 outside 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 was not very good, and there was a damp smell of grass on the roadside.
The gray-white clouds in the sky were moving, as if they were still half asleep.
Suddenly, I felt that there was no need to bring that pot of plants out.
I am it, and it is me.