Hola amigos. Hope you're having a fabby day wherever you are in the world, I am. So far today I have eaten 4 bowls of cornflakes and managed to fall down the stairs. That's about it. I sincerely wish that your lives are all somewhat more productive than mine.
At the moment, I've not got internet on my laptop, and my dad's compatooter is strictly limited to checking emails, so updates may not be as often/regular as I promised. But I am still writing, at least one a day, and you should get at least one update a day, so I hope this is ok :) And in a week or a fortnight or so I should probably be in France with better internet, so updates will come thick and fast :)
P.S. The major issue of this no internet thing is that, while I write, I no longer have free access to Youtube. I am stuck with the sample music that came with the laptop. And for anyone that has an Acer Vista, you will know how terrible my situation is. The sounds that emanate from these speakers literally make me want to bleed.
And this is 'weed', another thought-provoking word from Lila Gray. Hope you enjoy :)
Fear grows thick like weeds. It creeps into your sleeping eyes, your open mouth, it crawls down your throat, wraps itself around your heart. You wake choking. It blooms grotesque. Fat, swollen petals, gorged on your nightmares. Cut them and the pus of your past sins oozes out and trickles, grey and diseased, into the shadowy recesses of your mind. And there it will remain, thick like weeds.
Whenever she wakes, she feels them growing inside her, feels the grimy fronds in her mouth, the cloying scent in her nose, the spores swirling around her lungs, straining against her ribcage, against another bad dream. She is drowning in tears and sweat. The roots explore further, creeping down into her gut and settling, a heavy, tumerous weight in the pit of her stomach. She swallows, but the tendrils still climb up her throat – resolutely, irrevocably – and leave her panicked and gasping. Fear commands her – she will not admit it, perhaps she does not even know it – but her every action is dictated by it. By the fear of being alone.
For him, it is different. For him, the weed is not his fear but his hate, his anger and his resignation. The weeds do not grow in him, they do not crawl in through his mouth and nestle around his heart, but they grow around him, they worm around his face, his limbs, they trap him, entwine him, leave him suspended above his pitiful spinning world. Dirty thorns prick his skin, the flowers drip stagnant, poisoned nectar into his eyes, onto his lips. His nostrils are filled with the bitter, acrid smell of crushed and bleeding leaves. He holds people at arm's length because the weeds coat his body and leave no room for truth, or for tenderness. The sarcasm is screamed through a mass of dead, dry twigs, just to confirm his existence. His eyes are desperate, if you can spy them through the mess of death and twisted life that encases him. Such a waste, of a perfect body and a wanting heart.
Someone should tell them – someone should have told them, before it became too late – that the weeds are not to be feared, not to be hated or struggled against, but they are there to be accepted, in complete existence. Laughter and sunshine is all very well, it may be easier to bear and more beautiful to look upon, but the real test of character is in the weeds. They are grey and desolate, bleak and yet utterly benign. If you smiled at them, they would smile back. They would nestle in your heart, next to the sunshine and the honey, they would be grey and twisted and ugly, but they would be honest, they would make a little home for themselves and never bother you again. They would blossom in your acceptance of your own flaws, they would soften and have mercy on your grieving soul, and they would release you. For fear is not to be feared, and hate is not to be hated, and that is the greatest tragedy of all.
As always, Bravo hearts reviews :)