The ferns were the worst. Or the best. They uncurled like the green tongues of sleeping giants, each spiral a labyrinth I could fall into. When I blinked, the afterimage wasn't a blob of light—it was the memory of photosynthesis. The shadow of the tree was not darkness; it was the tree’s other half, resting.
The sun had not just set; it had melted . It dripped down through the canopy in thick, amber rivulets, staining the ferns the color of old honey. That was the first sign that my vision belonged to the —not the drunkenness of wine, but the dizzy intoxication of chlorophyll. grogue visão das plantas
I knelt in the moss. The moss breathed back. The ferns were the worst
A vine curled around my ankle. It did not pull. It simply insisted . It whispered in the language of dew and decay: You are just a passing symptom. We are the hangover that never ends. When I blinked, the afterimage wasn't a blob
Vertigem Verde (Green Vertigo)
I tried to touch a blade of grass. My fingers passed through it. Or rather, it passed through me . I was the ghost. The plants were the anchors: solid, ancient, drunk on their own steady growth. My human dizziness was just a poor imitation of their stillness.
I lay down in the undergrowth, letting the green fever take my sight completely. The world became a single, unfocused, beautiful blur of veins and petals.