I return to work after three days of absence. The plant on my desk started to wither a bit. I pick up the dry leaves. I stare at them lying on my desk. While growing older, parts of us die. Those never come back. I look at the plant and wonder if it is going to just keep dying or some blossom will surprise me some time soon when the buds are ready. It is easier to die. Much easier. I keep moving my eyes between the dead leaves and the plant with the semi-green leaves.
It is much easier to die.