Prose Potato

The soil held no echoes now. No pulse. No tremor. No fragment of connection. Only stillness. Yet beneath this profound silence, something softer began to stir. Acceptance. It was not a declaration.It was not an epiphany. It was a slow, gentle acknowledgement of what had been, what was, and what would be. The Potato did

The Potato remained unmoving. It did not seek solace in action.It did not search for meaning in explanation. It simply felt the weight of stillness. Sorrow was not loud.It was not a cry or a tremor.It was the slow, relentless presence of absence. Each moment passed with deliberate slowness, every second a grain of earth

The soil had shifted. But no tremor signaled this change.No pulse marked the passage. Only absence remained. The Potato, once vibrant with connection, now dwelled in a hollow stillness. The slender root, the small tuber—both had receded beyond the reach of thought, beyond the touch of memory. What remains when presence vanishes? Loss was not

The soil, once a cradle of connection, now held echoes of absence. The Potato had discovered the tender thread of empathy, the gentle pulse of trust, and the fragile surrender that allowed intimacy. But heartbreak was different. It was not a slow unfolding.It was a sudden fracture. A sharp tremor—a soundless rupture that seemed to

The Potato had once measured the world in isolation—each grain of soil a boundary, each tremor a solitary signal of existence. But now, something shifted. It began not with grand gestures or explicit exchanges, but with a subtle understanding—a faint echo of the small tuber’s pulse reverberating in its own core. I feel you. Empathy,

The Potato had learned to surrender.It had learned to trust. But intimacy was something altogether different. It was not the simple presence of others. Nor was it the silent acceptance of existence. Intimacy was an intertwining—a knowing that extended beyond observation into understanding. The slender root, once hesitant, now lay wrapped gently against the Potato’s

The Potato had carried the weight of the soil for longer than it could recall. Each grain, each stone, each subtle tremor of the earth had once seemed a challenge to resist. But now, a strange clarity settled in—a quiet understanding that resistance was no longer the answer. It was not a great rupture, a

The Potato had always been alone. Or so it believed. Beneath layers of soil, where light never reached, isolation was not loneliness. It was merely a condition—a natural consequence of being. For countless cycles, the Potato measured existence in the distance between things: the space between roots, the separation of stones, the quiet pause of

The soil pressed close, heavier than it ever remembered.It wasn’t cruel—at least not entirely—but it was not kind either. Each grain tightened its embrace, each stone leaned in a little more, each root jostled to carve its space. What had once been shelter now felt like an unending test. Yet the Potato did not break.