Roobootics: The Blog

by Ruchi Nawathe

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  • dandelion

    by

    How might the dandelion feel when it blooms from the ground, with soft spring air misting over its body, so refreshing, crisp, nourishing. Slowly, it grows to the sky, staring like a mirror, yellow reflecting yellow, green reflecting blue. The sun, finally warm after a lengthy gloom, a winter where it hides away for most of the day, perhaps scared of dwindling in the frosty air. The sun, which beams down on our dandelion and births the clouds that work in harmony to turn white into green, desolate into lush.

    And so our little flower peaks its head from the earth, rising ever so timidly above the grass, making sure it is safe to come out of its hibernation. With its beautiful yellow bulb, it sees the birds and the bees and the flowers blooming on trees. It sees the succulently sweet peaches and plums and strawberries and the tart rhubarbs ready for picking. It sees the little children playing about in the grass, trampling the other dandelions that risked growing to see the sun. Children who pluck the other flowers and turn them into lovely little chains, adorning their necks and wrists and hair. 

    Such is the cycle of life, thinks our dandelion as it stretches up to the sky, boldly embracing the world that has turned forgiving and soft, to welcome all the new life that spring brings. The bees buzz about, occasionally landing on our dandelion to suckle on the sweet nectar it provides. And such is the cycle of life, for the yellow does not last forever, and soon the dandelion reflects not the sun, but the children of the sun. White balls of fluff that look so soft that one much smaller than you or I could drift away upon it. Drift away, like the wind that blows through its mane, chipping away at the clouds little by little. 

    Perhaps one of the children grabs our dandelion, wishing to experience a miracle, and uses all the wind in her body to blow the rest of our dandelion away. And come true does her wish, for the scattered dandelion spreads all over the field, giving way to the next generation of timid little flowers who slowly peek their heads over the grass. And such is the miraculous cycle of life. 

  • The Most Miraculous Garden

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    At the precipice of reality and fantasy, there sits a little garden. A fantastic, beautiful garden that welcomes all the birds and the bees and the butterflies and the fairies and the little woodland nymphs that roam our world and the one beyond. On either end of the garden, there is a door. The one that connects to our world is an arch made of twisting ivy and wallflowers that have woven themselves into a magnificent doorway with hinges and handles. On the handle rests a small little lock, a lock with no key. The door that connects to their world is a portal of pure magic, a waterfall of sparkles made from the clearest of light and colors that the human mind cannot fathom. A door that needs no lock, for only gentle souls can pass through it. The few unlucky folks that have had the pleasure of seeing the garden leave it with despair, for they know they can never feast their eyes on anything so glorious ever again. 

    There are tiger lilies that roar, blue bells that chime, and a weeping willow who drowns herself in sorrow. There is a pond that glistens with rainbows, home to tiny turtles and mermaids and jellyfish who splash and play with one another. A bridge of crystals, shining in the neverending sun, positioned so one may see the pond under their feet as they cross it. The air is forever sweet, crisp, with the most delightful breeze that tickles through one’s hair. Next to all the flowerbeds and the trees grows the softest moss, inviting all lifeforms to sleep soundly in the sun or in the shade. In this garden, there is no hatred, no misery, only harmony. The bees buzz around in circles and the birds sing songs to each other. The fairies flit about the flowers, chasing each other with delightful giggles. The woodland nymphs burrow into the trees, building the most beautiful nests, not just for themselves, but for the birds and the fairies as well. 

    Very few from our world have ever been able to find the garden, all for the best, no doubt. For if the unworthy catch wind of something so sublime, it would lose all that makes it special. Perhaps you can be the next person to find that exquisite garden, right on the precipice of fantasy and reality. If you do though, I must warn you, you might never feel happiness again. 

    Here’s a secret, for those that have read this far. You see, earlier, I lied. There is a key to the door after all, and it is in my possession. Now hush, as I hand it to you discretely. Use it with caution, should you choose to use it at all. Will you live your life blissfully unaware of what you are missing, or will you experience the most wonderful thing in the world, only to yearn for it for the rest of your existence? The choice is all yours.

    So, what will it be?

  • Her

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    I see Her

    She lives in my reflection

    Shrouded in shadows, so gaunt, so grim

    I hear Her

    She whispers to me, a soft hiss

    That I am nothing, and I deserve nothing

    And I don’t want to listen

    So She screams, a piercing screech 

    I am nothing, I deserve nothing

    I feel Her

    Cold and clammy

    Slithering around my body, squeezing me blue

    A hug so tight, I no longer wish to breathe

    I taste Her

    Sweet, icy happiness trickles down my throat

    Turning my lips numb and my head frozen

    And as quickly as She comes

    She is gone

    I see Him 

    He bathes my mind with His mane of light

    Vanishing everything else, so bright, so blinding

    I hear Him

    He purrs in my ear

    That I am everything, and I am owed everything

    And I won’t let him make a fool of me

    So He roars, rumbling the Earth

    I am everything, God herself should bow to me

    I feel him

    Restless, nocturnal, predatory

    Sinking His teeth into the back of my neck

    For when He holds me I need neither sleep nor sustenance

    I taste Him

    Bitter, lighting a fire down my throat

    And I am numb, yet so sensitive

    And I feel everything, and nothing

    The everything that makes a mess

    And the nothing that is apathy

    He always leaves a mess

    That I have to clean

    And the shame

    Oh, the shame

    She’s back.