The Gardener

The greenery.
People trudge.
People are searching for the unexplainable.
People are hitting roads for grandiose miles, hoping it may somehow lead back to a time when a smile came from within.
Remember the time?
They sing and move with fluidity as though tomorrow isn’t promised.
And it isn’t.
But there’s something about tomorrow that today simply cant provide.
There’s something about the unknown that takes all of your knowing to grasp.
There’s something about chancing a chance.
In life, in love, in truth and in facades, miles of greenery spring up like the days of creationism.
With each dawn, you truly believe that all things are created, substantially as they now exist, by your own hands.
Your own reactions.
Your own ability.
Gradual evolution.
And so you hit the road with nothing but your bare back strapped with fantasies and fallacies.
You believe the end can’t be as far as it seems.
You believe the eternal end won’t reach you.
You’re not sure what you’re searching for, but you search.
You’re not sure what you’re craving for, but you crave.
You’re not sure what’s holding you down, making you trudge.
But your feet are heavy.
You’re squinting, tracing cloud patterns in the sky for a mere clue.
You won’t finish until you start, right?
Thats why you started.
But your steps are heavy-laden.
Your steps are coated with liquid leisures, hazy inhalation, frolics and debauchery.
Your mind slowly detaches.
And little do you know what has your feet feeling like you’re tied to bags of gardening soil and your mind feeling like it’s housing fallen branches.
Little do you know your path is already paved, your garden is already grown and you encountered miles of greenery almost by choice.
Little do you know you have a potentially dangerous inability to let go.
Just let go.
Let go.
Let go(d).