I pick up the cup from my windowsil. Inside it are a few leaves of my dead transcdentia, theyre growing new roots and trying again. Taking in sunlight and becoming anew. As I stare at them and move the remaining water around the circular shape, I wonder if I could grow just as easily.

If I were to cut off the dead parts of myself could I rebuild them from the ground up. Become an array of a past and a future? I hoped so. As I walked to my kitchen sink I begged the universe for mercy. I wanted to be able to change. Growth was a side plot, I wanted to be able to be different so that life could be less boring. As I filled the cup I thought of all my escapes.

Of the books I read with inconcievable realities, pretending that every word came from my own hand. I thought of those moments where I would sit and dance in ball gowns and fall in love with knights and sing and drive through grassy hills all while sitting in my room. I thought of all the lives I wasnt living. Then I turned off the faucet.

Routine kept me sane but disatisfied, I wanted to know there was something more than this. Lives outside the pot I was growing in. Worlds beyond my windowsill. And as I went back to my previous spot in the living room, I let the cup settle in its home with a sigh.

There has to be more than this. Please tell me that I wont spend the rest of my life checking off lists.

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Was gonna upload this yesterday but it kept deleting every draft i made and i got irritated and gave up💀

but hey its here now so thanks for readingggg