There is a cactus hanging lopsided in a pot. The four inch trunk is dry and pale green, if you beam light through it you can see veins thin and dead. On the top of the cactus is a bauble of some ten other baubles out of which sprout tentacles which want to bloom with flowers, but are too drained of life to persist. Each green bauble is covered with pinpricks, dots from which grow fine hairs, white wisps that act as feeble armour for what should be the predator of the plant kingdom.
One day, when the rent is two months due and cupboards are bare, I will eat my cactus. It will taste great. But more it will give me powers to be even more cold and impassive to the rigours in chaos which take place outside my rented room's door.
Maybe, just maybe, the cactus will give me the insight to see even further under the surface of things than I think I can see. I may drizzle some oil over it once chopped into one centimetre segments, and fry it up for a Sunday lunch, wash it down with the roots distilled for a good cuppa tea.
One day, when the rent is two months due and cupboards are bare, I will eat my cactus. It will taste great. But more it will give me powers to be even more cold and impassive to the rigours in chaos which take place outside my rented room's door.
Maybe, just maybe, the cactus will give me the insight to see even further under the surface of things than I think I can see. I may drizzle some oil over it once chopped into one centimetre segments, and fry it up for a Sunday lunch, wash it down with the roots distilled for a good cuppa tea.
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