The Death of Hope and Reason

The Death of Hope and Reason

I wanted to see the plant die. That would be the appropriate conclusion. I had not thought about it and I had not watered it. Now it is drooping and sorrowful. I do not have the heart to water it now, in the brief moment I am aware of its misery, because I will not think of it again. Helping it now with no hope of continuance does not promote health, but decay.

The tooth I chipped was not the failing one I was expecting and awaiting to suffer. The chipped tooth was next to that. A tore hunk of bread (as an afterthought to a thoughtful salad and nutritious sandwich) was the irony. My meals had been frying oil potato and late night burger for consecutive weeks, chased down with cola in the three to four hours before dawn. I felt the damage on my teeth and was inclined to take reversing action. It was not even the telling cavity that caved to a crust of bread, just an average of the lot. There are no safe assurances. All these teeth are deficient, bare, vulnerable.

I liked the plant. I saw light green stalks emerge around the stalks as evidence of health. I did not prefer it to grow, but that was the bargain and an acceptable one. When I moved in I picked it out from a selection of more flowery, more trite competitors. Then I spent several shopping trips on a suitable home. Telephone booth red and round. The walls of my room were painted red by the landlady, so I was pleased.

A few times I watered it between long droughts yet the plant wasn't deterred. I felt comforted.

If I manage to water and operate the window blinds regularly, that would be an indication I was doing O.K. That went the thought. The plant's well being was an indisputable demonstration of my healthy condition.