What grows in your garden

Somewhere on the landscape lies a place next to your heart

But the grass grows wide and even

And soon that too will be torn apart

The dread has metastasised all over my body. It has taken ahold of my being, slowly wrapping it around its tendrils, making pastries out of seeping emotions, gestures of lewdness and mockery, parasitic in its endeavour, telling me how life and everything around it just seems so absurd.

Tread lightly and gently. Every step is weighted, so the individual stomp carries a context of meaning, abysmal even if it should not be, causing misery in its wake. Somehow in order to contextualise this sort of notion borders on the side of ludicrous, for we mere men of lyrics are creatures of habit, and we, at times, do things regardless of the repercussions an event may incur, knowing fully well that the individual experience may be compromised by the idea of constant rejection. A concept that is well understated beyond the grand scheme of things, barely scratching the surface in its capacity to do one harm.

Walking is a simple and civil and human endeavour made complex by the fear of what lies ahead in its destination. Walking becomes a tedious affair. I fear to make a move for the sake of making it, because some people are just sorry not sorry for your little troubles.