I must admit. The day that I left I was told to be careful because the grass may not be greener on the other side. The person who said this was right. Since I left, the grass has been nothing but dry. There has not been a consistent flow of satiating rain. Seeds have not been thrown about with the intent of growing underneath the soles of my feet to carry me through fields of frolicking wonder. Nothing takes root so the morning dew becomes increasingly pointless. No, the grass has not been greener. And I wish I could go back to green grass, but the truth is:
He was never green grass to me. He was the imitation of soil before any deception of grass could even fathom to grow. And even with a little bit of time and patience all he ever turned out to be was the s— that sits there permeating wide open spaces. I can still smell him lingering in my nose nauseating my stomach.
But this guy here is the paradise of greens. He is the Eden of vegetation. He holds the fruits of good and of bad tempting succulence in all his ways. I dare not walk on his grass until I know for sure that I can sunbathe on his soft blades. I desire to add nourishment to his thriving life as I stand here breathing in his air. I smell fermentation. I feel the tingling of new growth at my feet, beckoning me to take off my shoes and take a leap.