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The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

Bamboo people


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The sun is shining. The rooftop is covered with golden light, and even though I live in the middle of the city, I can hear a bird sing. Singing solo, like me. With a longing for spring to kick in properly I hang out my window and watch the shadowplay of a tree on the house behind mine.

 

My eyes wander aimlessly around and I see that my neighbor has put new plants in his window sill. The curtains are closed, and the plants are portrayed like whores against their white background. They weren’t there yesterday.

 

Two bamboo sprouts, each in its separate blue vase, one leaning slightly towards the other, but the other doesn’t notice. It is standing tall and straight, head aimed at the sun, unaware of the request for attention of his fellow sprout.

 

It hits me that they are like two kinds of people; the ones that are strong and tall, looking brightly at the sun, and the others, reaching out, wanting to belong. I wonder if one could be both, but the plants disagree with me.

 

A cloud drifts in front of the sun, cascading shade over the sunny roof. The curtains move and my neighbor appears. He swings open the window and waves. Then he turns the vases slightly, and I see that the bamboo sprout that had looked tall and straight to me also has a slight bent.

 

“You need to turn them regularly.” my neighbor says, “They grow towards the sun, you know.”

 

I smile and nod in reply, thinking, “Don’t we all?”

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