september 9, 1967
it was a bit hard waking up today. the sun seems to have put me on his hit list. it isn't fair to mention, but in strengths to not leave you hanging i'll give you just an inch. an inch for your mile. see, my name is harold and i'm a plant. not your ordinary weed or seed you'd place in your courtyard community garden. no, see, i am nothing but a measly houseplant. i am neglected. i am malnourished. i am what i am, and that is harold and a plant.
there comes a time in every plant's life when the sun puts he or she on his hit list. you see, the sun has a great envy toward us. as we sag and droop in this seemingly sad manner, he knows the truth.
now as a human being, you look at me through your eyeballs and see that it appears that i am in bad shape, death being right around the corner. this sort of thing depresses you. however, your being alarmed is quite okay! you see, with your neglect i prosper. i get to see all of those little things you mistakenly continue to look over (like searching underneath every cushion for the remote control, which causes you to haphazardly forget about me, for example). the sun sees this too, but he has to stay put for, well, obvious reasons. i can watch and see and smile with a drop of a leaf. this death that appears to be developing isn't the kind homo sapiens experience.
you see, when the AC blows heavily across me, as you sneeze on, run past, pick at, talk to, and trip over me, harold the plant, i am thriving! when your t.v. begins to snow and the thunder is causing the sky to perspire around the time i need sustenance. when your record player crackles and the dust flurries shrink my roots and make them cringe faulty words. when you have company over and i am left observing in the corner. when i am listening and you think you're all alone. in all of this, i am sinking.
see, you mistake my drooping for fatality. you poor souls. you lonely sun.
what did you want to see, what did you want to be when you grew up?
harold the plant