The ferns were the worst. Or the best. They uncurled like the green tongues of sleeping giants, each spiral a labyrinth I could fall into. When I blinked, the afterimage wasn't a blob of light—it was the memory of photosynthesis. The shadow of the tree was not darkness; it was the tree’s other half, resting.
I tried to touch a blade of grass. My fingers passed through it. Or rather, it passed through me . I was the ghost. The plants were the anchors: solid, ancient, drunk on their own steady growth. My human dizziness was just a poor imitation of their stillness. grogue visão das plantas
Each leaf was no longer a surface, but a window . I saw the slow, stubborn heartbeat of the philodendron. I saw the xylem as a frantic subway of light. The orchid on the branch was not a flower; it was a mouth, silently screaming a color that didn't exist yesterday—a purple so deep it had weight, pressing on my sternum. The ferns were the worst