My Garden

I think a lot. I think far too much, about every detail of every day; every experience and every thought that blossoms in my head. In my mind is a garden, filled with millions of tiny flowers and weeds, and I’ve scrutinised every single one of them, inside and out. You could pick one, and I can tell you when it was planted, how often it was watered and the height to which it grew before I either let it die, or continued to care for it. I tend to my garden every day, all day. I never stop. Every new experience is a handful of seeds thrown in my direction and I HAVE to catch them. I pick them up, one by one, and make space for them to grow. Sometimes I plant weeds. Ugly, poisonous plants that quickly grow out of control, suffocating the beautiful flowers and twisting their jagged roots deep into the earth. I watch them destroy my hard work and cry when I realise that I’m the one that gives them life. I water them when I shouldn’t, and pay them extra attention when instead I should be ripping them from the ground. But it doesn’t matter how many flowers I let die or how many weeds I plant, I can’t stop caring for them because even though they’re poisonous, when they’re thrown in my direction, I HAVE to catch them.


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