Some weeks ago I bought a plant. A succulent, to be precise. The uncheerable office would at least have a cute, though rather boring, being. Boredom should be displayed at the office entrance, instead of its untrue name. “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate”. Strip it off, it shall be useless, and a burden.
So, within those barren brittle walls I have spent quite a lot of time, breathing judicial thickness, mites and dust. Preventing myself from leaping to find open air – which is easy enough, once the windows are sole glass panels, inopenable. Trying to imprint some sense in the anguish that spreads through the central air.
I was pretty satisfied with my succulent, which, to me, had shown signs of adapting quite well to the unfriendly place. Watering twice a week, and leaving it in the parapet during the weekends, I had the impression that it was actually growing, happy to leave a dull shelf in the supermarket.
Today however I was surprised by the assertive analysis of two colleagues that declared that that was no plant. It’s fake, they peremptorily stated. Bewildered, I examined it. I had already watered, cherished, caressed. An unvegetable plant.
Unconvinced, but hurt all the same, I refused to tear a leaf and settle the matter. It would not make a difference. Stunned by being incapable of differentiating a living thing from a piece of plastic.
And then it came to me: do androids dream of electric sheep?