"Why are we even here? To find plants? Or to find meaning?" I ponder, as I trudge through the marshy hinterlands of my mind, which, incidentally, resemble Vermont's supposed botanical paradises. What if we're just props in a cosmic comedy, or worse, a tragedy?
Consider the recent hoopla in Vermont where, against all odds, a plant - let's call it the 'Zombie Weed' - was supposedly seen after a century of playing dead. The discovery by a sharp-eyed somethingologist (or was it a turtle-herder? My memory is quite fog merely due to existential dread, not age), began a surreal quest resembling scenes from a storybook written by a demented playwright.
Here's the clincher: Ms. Jones (not her real name for privacy, and because humans are interchangeable), found this plant while not searching for it, just like I stumbled upon my desire to fade into oblivion while making coffee this morning.
The resurrection of Zombie Weed buzzes through public consciousness like a bee on steroids, reminding us that if a plant can come back from the dead, maybe my hopes could too? But then, hope is a dangerous thing for those flirting with nihilism.
As I shadow Ms. Jones through undergrowth teeming with every sort of creeping, crawling critter, I am hit with a bizarre realization. This isn't just about plants. It's a metaphor. A dark, twisted laugh at how absurdly painful the pursuit of meaning can be when one is surrounded by relentless cheer of the living.
Do plants whisper secrets of survival? Or do they scream into the void, "Leave me to decompose in peace"? Like the time I tried talking to my rubber plant about Schopenhauer, it withered – possibly in horror or just desperate to escape my soliloquy on mortality.
Ending on a high note – oh wait, this article or me? Well, I'd say if I were to die alone, it would be to the melodious sound of my houseplants sighing in relief. Plants: 1, Jack Superblack: 0.
Based on the original article "By a Stream in Vermont, a Glimpse of a Plant Last Seen a Century Ago".
