Prose Potato

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.

It began not with touch, but with tremor. The soil had always carried its endless murmurs—worms wriggling through the dark, the slow stretch of roots reaching deeper, the drip of water finding hollows in stone. These were the background notes of existence, the constant undercurrent of being alive beneath the surface. But this tremor was

Recognition was not immediate. It was not loud. It arrived the way moss finds stone: slowly, intimately, without certainty. But when it arrived, the potato knew. For a time, there had only been the memory of a presence. A warmth once shared. A pulse once echoed. But now, that echo returned—not as repetition, but as

Anticipation was not born in the mind, but in the pulse. It began the way a breeze begins underground—not by wind, but by a subtle rearrangement of warmth and scent. A nudge. A signal. The potato did not know what had shifted, but it felt it. Like a hush before words. Like a question before

Longing was not a sharp thing. It was soft—soft like the soundless pressure of water against stone, like the silence between raindrops falling underground. The potato did not know what it longed for at first. There was no shape to the ache, no name—only a pull. A pull toward more. This was not curiosity; that