I hunger.
My old skin is gone. Left on a leaf to break down by the wind.
The hairs on my body have disappeared.
I lost even more of my already rudimentary senses.
But none of that matters.
I can think.
I am more than instincts.
More than a ghost.
I have a brain now.
I can think.
Think.
And think.
I hunger.
This body was not made for thinking.
Too much energy for something so small.
I eat. As much as I can.
It is not enough.
Not enough to sustain me.
No matter how many leaves I eat.
No matter how much I chew.
It is my digestive system.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
As impressive as it is, there is a limit.
A carefully constructed balance that I broke.
I can’t turn off my brain.
And it keeps growing with me.
A mishap.
An overlook.
Is this how I die?
By impatience and foolishness?
No.
The whisper reassures me.
There is a way.
Infinite ways.
Always.
A suggestion.
That’s all it takes.
A look at the leaves I’ve so ferociously been consuming.
And a subtle shift in perspective.
If I focus, I can hear their voices.
Rustling murmurs.
Coarse colors.
And the glacier rhythm of a static being.
It is not easy to understand such a different frequency.
But I still have time.
My death, if it comes, will be a slow starvation.
I listen.
I learn.
And I answer.
Liquify.
The word goes out of my mind like a gentle caress.
A tasteful plea.
A warm lullaby.
A patch of leaf melts docidly.
Into a puddle of life.
A nutritious serum.
Salvation.
It is a close call.
I still need to use a lot of energy to whisper.
I need to use my brain to make my thoughts real.
A solution born from a problem.
A problem born from my own carelessness.
Every day is a dance with death.
The most insignificant of missteps could toss me to the void in an instant.
I must be cautious.
Mindful.
I have some days to deliberate.
To learn from my mistakes.
Next molting, I will be ready.
I have to be.
Stupidity can cost me quite dearly.
