The Busuki variety. There I'm done.

It was blue, if it was red, if it was pink, or silver. It was in a color flux, and as we know, color is only attained in the reflection of light, so that this thing of perpetual changing color could never truly blame itself. It blamed the sun.

It sat on the man's desk neatly within itself, staring out the window at the sun and dreading todays appear in color, if it would change in front of the man it so adored. It hoped for nothing else to remain one color and one color only, so that in its steadiness, the man so very often absent, would stop running away and sit and spend more time with the thing.

"Oh, to be a thing of changing color!" bemoaned the thing of changing color. "If only I stabilized, the man would stabilize and stay with me forever. Oh, the pencils will finally stop laughing at me, the pictures stop posing in their lovely captured multitude of colors, the envy of the whole room. The lamp will stop making false claims that its light can cure me, for I know it would only leave me yellow and weaker than now!"

The thing wasn't always like this. Its earliest memories were only of life on the desk, no further back nor to any other place or state of being. The present condition was an expanding always; consciousness with memories never particularized to time, but forever lived and relived as lessons, boundaries enforced, the kind of breaking in a wild stallion receives. The thing had an "I" and the "I" first liked the pictures. It recognized in the many colors its own shifting many colors, though each color presented itself one at a time, sometimes two at most. It was in a state of staring, without speech, without motion, its attention trained to itself and back to pictures and back to itself. And in doing so, the thing realized that while it looked back and forth, the pictures only attention was to other pictures down the line of the desk and wall.

The object experienced a passing of time, as staring more and more at the colors in the picture and within itself revealed new details. With each new color, each new object on the desk, the thing recognized a cycle of consciousness followed by a period of sleep and an awakening back to conscious, a first look at the surroundings, and the presence of new details first experienced in memory and then seen in the surroundings.

The object became aware of a distance voice, a cooing, the man came into focus and then left. At another time, the man came back, within the thing's vision, and each time the man appeared it was in a changing color of body, in which the object recognized something more akin to itself. The man would frequently break up the cycle within the things' consciousness with his presence coming and going, imparting a second sense of time or marker within the state of consciousness for the thing to recognize.And tra la la la la.

It was the holidays. The thing had gathered that much over such a great period of time. The thing had divided conscious periods into many different quad and sub periods. In doing so, he felt disdain for the pictures, the pencils, the lamps, the other objects that cared nothing for the man of changing colored torso and legs. But mostly, the thing still hated the sun. He hated how it made him feel so good, but made him change in ways the man never changed, in ways more akin to the picture, with greens and reds and pinks and this thing would contain more than one color at a time, and then at times the colors were gone.

Oh screw it. The thing is an indoor Rhododendron. The Busuki variety. There I"m done.