We spend fortunes on artificial plants,
perfect leaves that never tasted rain,
trees with no childhood,
flowers that have never known spring.
We place them in living rooms,
on balconies, in offices,
silent plastic eyes staring back
at the emptiness inside us.
Rooftop gardens replaced with artificial lawns,
parks host synthetic turf,
apartments display plastic flowers
while real herbs shrivel quietly,
waiting for hands that will never come.
We build aquariums of fake oceans
while the real seas choke on oil.
We scatter silicone fruits in kitchens
while abandoned orchards starve.
We install artificial clouds
while the sky disappears behind smog.
We walk past these lifeless things,
feel the cold smoothness of plastic leaves,
and wonder why our hands fear soil,
why our hearts avoid responsibility.
Real plants wait humbly,
in small roadside nurseries,
in village markets,
in the hands of old gardeners
whose palms smell like soil and sunshine.
They wait for a little care,
a little water,
a little proof that someone still remembers
how to nurture something.
But we do not choose them.
We choose what never droops,
never cries,
never forgives,
never asks,
never needs us.
We choose a life that looks alive,
just like we choose
digital sunsets on walls
over stepping outside
to feel the actual wind,
to touch the actual skin.
We travel, but we do not live.
We only capture ourselves
in frames, in pixels,
so that one day we will exist
only in photographs,
never in memory,
never in presence.
Life is becoming artificial.
Real needs care.
Real demands effort.
Real terrifies us.
Artificial obeys.
Artificial never asks.
Artificial is ours to command.
We are creature of convenience,
wanting everything on remote,
everything silent,
everything obedient,
everything that does not demand us,
because we are afraid
of everything that does.
And yet, we all carry narcissistic tendencies,
but some remain empathetic,
without being pathetic.
They are the ones who still bend toward care,
who still touch soil,
who still listen,
who still see.
We buy imitation ivy while forests burn,
we place fake bonsais while forgetting
the patience a real one teaches,
we decorate our windows with plastic ferns
while real ones wilt,
waiting for someone
who remembers
that beauty was once a responsibility.
We build friendships on screens,
smiles in photographs,
love letters in emojis,
concerts watched on livestreams,
hikes in virtual boots,
souls on standby,
memories in hard drives.
We buy life:
Clean water?
BUY WATER PURIFIER.
Clean air?
BUY AIR PURIFIER.
24/7 electricity?
BUY INVERTER.
Quality education?
EXPENSIVE PRIVATE SCHOOLS.
Decent healthcare?
EXPENSIVE PRIVATE HOSPITALS.
Safe food?
DO IODINE TEST AT HOME.
We package life,
we outsource care,
we commodify presence,
we consume what we fear to nurture.
One day, maybe, we will exist
only in the traces we leave,
never in hearts, never in presence,
never truly alive.
Time passes, unnoticed,
and we age in images and pixels,
while the earth we never touch
keeps living, keeps dying.
We may one day exist only
in photographs,
never in memory,
never in presence,
never truly alive.
Maybe that is the story of our century:
We want the aesthetics of life
without the labour of love,
the charm of nature
without getting our hands dirty,
presence without effort,
everything real
without the work
that keeps it alive.
In the end, it is not about plants.
It is about us.
Choosing what does not need us,
because caring terrifies us,
because real demands us,
because effort is inconvenient.
And yet, if we dare,
if we bend toward soil,
toward touch, toward presence,
if we let our hands get dirty,
our hearts get raw,
our souls get seen,
we can still remember
how life was meant to be lived
alive, raw, tender, imperfect, real,
and infinitely ours.
– Dr Haroon Rashid
