A love letter to curiosity

there’s this individual that had lived everywhere and anywhere. one could talk about Indonesia, Japan, Angola and they would have replied with information about the local cuisine, the correct and awe-inducing use of infrastructure, the most famous artist and so on. 

he would often walk at night, when most of the population was fast asleep and he could be alone and process their own thoughts, something he only got used to in recent years. not from lack of attempts, but yes to their nature of or blurting their questions or having internal monologues about the currents of the river near their grandmother’s house.

on this walk, similar to the others, he had kneeled down to analyse something new in the environment, this time between the neighbour's house and his. a pinkish flower stood, open, damp from the rain that had fallen in the evening. he gently analysed the darker spots, the relief of the flower’s centre and the dead bee, assumption of the death’s nature: exertion, being made. not remembering the blossom’s species or its image, he gently caressed. they had seen, therefore it was only normal to crave the touch. it wasn’t enough, and, accordingly, they smelled. notes of the flower’s potential flavour profile swiftly take presence in his mind. combining with the meat acquired last month or the oranges in their backyard would taste perhaps, just perhaps, divine. one second later, he had confirmed his thoughts. acidic at first, sweet at the end, he promptly grabbed some buds present next to the flower to take home. his father, and those above him, would often discourage these venturous actions of his. they would often praise stick collection for starting a fire instead of botanical growth that promoted a different type of warmth. he would rather see his wife happy and hear her praise.

13.11.2025