month record rogue 5 6 2

Despite having only entrusted a minute fragment of her consciousness to the plant, when the sickle comes for the wheat, she still pulls back her neck.

It is the autumn harvest, and in the farmers' hands, blades fall. The plant with her spirit is cleaved in two, wheat becomes harvest, and the bare stalks are left in the fields. Here, the wheat's life ends, but she does not retrieve the fragment of consciousness within the stalk.

Life may grow, but how can one overlook its fading?

The fragment of consciousness within the stalk pays careful attention. Death comes slow and sorrowful, as the stalk yellows then browns, cracking as it withers. Her consciousness falls into the earth, shattering further into countless particles, caring nothing for the distinction between self and soil. She senses a return to the primeval chaos. Dark, cold, damp. Just like that tomb. Is she afraid? She must admit that she is not calm, but an even stronger emotion has its grasp on her... loneliness.

Here, her experience of life as another comes to an end. The winter days are bitterly long, as she tends to the tools and collates data alongside everyone else. Slowly but surely, she forgets about her time as wheat... until sowing season comes by again.

Thunder rolls across the field once more, and with it, her eyes open wide. Her attention is pulled to the plants in the field. The sprig of consciousness is still there, but it is not in the same wheat as last time. She opens her 'eyes', countless 'eyes'. Seeds covering the land. Dead leaves become nutrients, nourishing new plants. They too will wither at the cycle's end, returning to the soil, fertilizing the next round of seeds.