I tried to touch a blade of grass. My fingers passed through it. Or rather, it passed through me . I was the ghost. The plants were the anchors: solid, ancient, drunk on their own steady growth. My human dizziness was just a poor imitation of their stillness.

And for the first time, I saw clearly.

The ferns were the worst. Or the best. They uncurled like the green tongues of sleeping giants, each spiral a labyrinth I could fall into. When I blinked, the afterimage wasn't a blob of light—it was the memory of photosynthesis. The shadow of the tree was not darkness; it was the tree’s other half, resting.

I knelt in the moss. The moss breathed back.

Vertigem Verde (Green Vertigo)

Each leaf was no longer a surface, but a window . I saw the slow, stubborn heartbeat of the philodendron. I saw the xylem as a frantic subway of light. The orchid on the branch was not a flower; it was a mouth, silently screaming a color that didn't exist yesterday—a purple so deep it had weight, pressing on my sternum.

A vine curled around my ankle. It did not pull. It simply insisted . It whispered in the language of dew and decay: You are just a passing symptom. We are the hangover that never ends.