The poem hung in the air a moment, then An-Yi scanned the table at the poetry reading, then sighed. "Isn't this just Taoist-flavored fluff?" she asked while leaning back, chair creaking. A few scattered chuckles flickered and died around the table. She smeared a smudge of grease from her cheek with a tattered sleeve while sipping bitter coffee. "Soft roots. Yielding fronds. That’s a luxury aesthetic for privileged toffs who can clock out get to ‘bend.’ Most working poor don’t bend—we have to absorb impact."
Daiki leaned forward, the rusted joints of his chair shrieking in protest. He drummed his fingers on the table in a dry, vacant rhythm like a machine losing calibration. "Nothing new here," he muttered. "Same polished clichés as usual. Philosophy sanded smooth until it says nothing at all."
Across from them, Bhäraté smirked, swirling the dregs of a drink that had long since gone flat. "Maybe that’s the point," he said. "Less friction, less resistance. Easier to process." He tilted his head toward An-Yi. "Perhaps you’re too sensitive, An-Yi? Is your neural-feed spiking again? Perhaps it’s time for a Central Command tune-up. They have a lovely 'inner peace' patch for that." An-Yi shot him a sharp look, but said nothing.
Chariya, who had been dissecting the room with a clinical gaze, finally spoke. "An-Yi is right. Ideology is just a sedative," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "When the Command feeds us 'bamboo wisdom' to keep us flexible, they aren’t teaching us resilience—they’re ensuring we don't snap. A pause, then Chariya continued, "They want us flexible enough to absorb force, but too fluid to return it.” The table quieted.
Chariya expression then softened, and looked at his friends regretfully. "Anyway, anything I say doesn't really matter. However, it is good to remember most forests around us don’t happen naturally,” he added. "They’re managed. Culled. Optimized. We're could be likened tiny bamboo shoots in a managed forest. And the forest doesn't mourn yesterday's fallen trees. It sends out new shoots and tentative tendrils for green tomorrows."
The poet began speaking again, voice smooth, unbroken, perfectly pitched, offering another inane verse. At the table, no one listened.