I guess I'm strange for holding on to things that mend me. When certainty abandons and the thoughts come creeping in, perhaps it's best to run from blooming comfort and find solace in the far less frightening same we've always known. What's threatening in sameness? What fear is found in old? Pull flowers with the weeds and let no pure or foul thing grow. Nothing lives and nothing dies; just planted seeds plucked fast for fear they, one day, all might wither; or will grow too well to stand their loss in winter.
...I wonder if it's best to let things go?
...It's best just not to wonder, I've been told....
Why plant and toil and till and groan for something that may die before its season? So we stomp and crush the growing things, and retreat into our homes, so glad that we escaped such near, potential, threat of pain or glory. Then time goes on and nothing changes. Nothing's growing, nothing ages. Just the same old, safest, sameness that we've always held and known; but when the storms come in and the trust we've felt since youth is too frail for fighting, what grounded roots have we let grow in strength to hold? What new beauty then will lift us and what peace have we let bloom as newborn comfort? When the risk made us uneasy, did we stop the growth that now could be our mending?
Did we let the fear to start become our ending?
...I wonder if it's best to let things go?
...I wonder if we'll make it on our own?
...It's best just not to wonder, I've been told...
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