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A single seed floats in a field of deep black. A glowing ring surrounds it. Short bright rays extend out from the seed in pairs before fading and reappearing at a different angle. The seed vibrates and cracks open. The interior is even darker than the black universe engulfing you.

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A green tendril slithers out. A single pale green leaf extends from the tip. The leaf darkens and broadens. Glowing energy radiates from the seedling, pulsing broadcasts of light into space. . . . . . .

Dreams die. Plants die. Fear you can't take care of it properly. Fear of over watering or not watering enough. How indirect is the indirect sunlight?

Fear of having a dream that doesn't come true. Fear of having a dream that does come true and isn't as good as we want. Fear the bloom that's once every 100 years. Maybe we don't deserve it. Maybe someone else would appreciate it more.

But it's good to be there when it does. It's good to be there when it dies. It feels wrong to miss that pain completely. It feels right to feel the pain of loss.

Dreams defend themselves. Spikes. Toxins. Or just changing to become so small, tough, abstract and decentralized that they aren't vulnerable anymore. Change, or die. It can feel like changing is the death of the old self.

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Dreams are vulnerable. Easily dissipated. Easily forgotten. Easily modified and compromised until unrecognizably altered. They need protection from predators, detractors, pests, admirers who would pluck them, harvesters who would consume them and claim it was a matter of life or death, they needed to eat your dream or die. . . . . . .

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