Hothouse flowers. Falling stars.

There are a myriad of falling stars. Shining struggling to be seen. Their brilliance shine stronger, brighter and more resilient than any in our system combined. Their potential and their future, smothered by the inconsequential nearness of things within reach.

These hothouse flowers have it made. Multiple, uniformed – immaculate. They do not need the anything. They are here but for the superficial necessity of a system that will let them be known and set them for their future. Their incubated birth and isolated growth sets them up. It also brings them down. By the triflest of breezes and lightest of blows, they wilt, wither and die without nary an attempt to survive.

Please send me out of this hothouse, get me far away from the nursery and the grubby hands of the nurturers. Their artificial works scares me, their plastic creation offends me. Let me away from these synthedrome and let me breathe by the falling stars.

I shall incandesce myself to bask in their natural light, to be one with them, to breathe at their height. Let me burn myself that they can take flight, that their future collapses not.

Let me out of this strange hothouse, away from its artificial grouse. Send me out to the burning woods, decant, descend, incandescent. Tiger, tiger burning bright, can’t you see my synthetic plight.

- Vincent Immanuel Pang, 2007