The Plant in the Bar

You would likely not notice me if you came into the bar on a Friday or Saturday night, among the smoke, the crowd, the dim rotating lights, the strong smell of alcohol and the blaring music. I would be hidden away in a corner, silent, claustrophobic, hibernating. If you came in during the day however, here I am in the dusty corner beside the bar chairs, trying my best to stretch my old worn-out branches toward the faint glimmer of sunlight straining through the window a few feet away. You may not see me, but I see you... and I see many others like you. Unlike those who come in on the weekends to party through the night, intoxicated, swaying to the dull repeating beats of music they no longer recognize, you have come to be silent. Perhaps to retreat, to get an hour of respite from your daily ordeal. You order your golden pint, you sit down quietly in the corner opposite mine. I see the emptiness in your eyes, as they linger aimlessly and then wander toward the window, craving that thin sliver of light, of air, of warmth that I too, longingly yearn for. Cast away in a forgotten corner, old, withered, a neglected side-character in life's queer drama, I feel we are somehow connected. As if we are friends, not through our existence, but through our story.