Back into dirt

Watching flowers claw their way out of the earth is like seeing the whole damn spectacle of life and death without the curtains. They break free, hungry for the sky, under that relentless sun—no cheers, no spotlight. Just there, blazing defiance in the face of their own inevitable fade-out. It's the unvarnished cycle of existence, all laid out in vivid color.

These blooms, they're in on the joke. They bask in the daylight, live their brief day in the sun, then start the slide back to the dirt, shedding petals like forgotten promises. It's the universal beat for everything that breathes or blooms—a single act in the limelight before the darkness.

Standing there, watching them dim, doesn't flip any switches of understanding. It's the same old truth: everything's got an expiration date. The garden morphs into this silent arena where the hard facts do their quiet dance on my brain, all under the banner of the so-called natural order. It's more an exchange of knowing looks, a shared acknowledgment of the inevitable, than anything else. They bow out without fanfare, just a whisper back to the soil.

The quiet that follows isn't about finding peace; it's about coming to grips with the relentless cycle from birth to earth. There's beauty in that natural deal, but it's a tough, unflinching kind, the sort that doesn't bother with softening the edges or offering false comforts. It's the world as it is, distinct and undiluted.

And in that recognition, there's a kind of dignity, a straight-no-chaser acknowledgment of the cycle. Flowers push up, they blaze, then they're dust. We're just spectators, living through our moments until it's our turn to fade. That's the stripped-down truth of it, standing watch over a garden where everything's lined up for the final curtain.