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Walking through the fields of green in my evening at 4pm, the moment I pretend to be truly happy. And so, everyone knows, and so, I know it all too well, that I'm not. Happiness is mine to bear the bowl, yet is not mine to hold. Not talking about the virtue, 'cause bloody virtue, I say.
Study shes, yes. I'm patient, you're learning. Patiently learn about the red moon that suddenly comes across our morning sky just to get stared at by someone who can only picture it out with their eyes, nothing else. Perhaps the turf is laughing at the way I wanted it so badly, yet do nothing.
Is it morning, afternoon, evening, midnight? Well, I guess it's not so different for touching base. Gave the perfunctory greeting, but got blanked and, ya, was just left hanging there. Second-guessing myself if I should even say the greeting again, for later, for tomorrow, for the rest.
No. Don't ever call it begging. Joy of missing out to enjoy my own company, ya, recharging the social energy. Dare I say that is how solitude comes, okay. No, but just don't. But it's okay, okay, lonely. Torn. Going back and forth. Internal tug-of-war? No, no, not that dramatic. But, yes, okay. Lonely. Lonely is better than begging you to stand up for me, I said to the turf. Not really to the turf, indeed, just saying it so they don't laugh more on my fields of green, on theirs, basically, they do make the fields look green.
Our home turf is rarely green now, let alone wet. Crazy. Of course not because the water is flowing somewhere else instead of their fields. No, no. So naive. Like love. Turf sees. Turf listens. Turf knows. They are there all the time.
Rain in June, July, August? Water is so incredibly scarce. Turf is conflicted. Turf loves rain. Turf loves water. Not because it looks good,yes, water is clear, formless, and beautiful too when it falls from the sky. Yet, turf knows that the water is merely present, merely existing. Water is so useful in its daily life, even though the water falling from the sky is actually just falling, without any real intention of showing up to be useful for the turf. But what can it do?
Both of them are just present. Both of them just exist. Both of them understand it is not love. Too little, or even none at all, makes it as dry as it is now, but too much makes it confused, questioning, doubting, suspicious, and flooded. Even so, if loving means letting go and wishing the best, if love means saying this is the end. Well, I guess the turf wants the rain to love it less.
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