The Garden of my Soul

I carried my wounds in the hole in my heart like a steel ball with a chain connected to my soul. It was with great regret I put it down and cut the chain; severing the umbilical cord of comfort it gave me.

I dropped the ball that had filled that hole with great reserve...placed in a desert of regret. 

I prayed for rain.

The rain came with all its wrath, backed by the world, feeling the seed of discontent buried beneath the sands of my mind. 

But I persevered with the strength drawn from others, those that had weathered the storm before me. The faeces this world threw at me becoming nutrients my garden needed. 

I spend my days weeding the rich soil in the once barren desert as it becomes a garden.  

From the fertiliser, humanity has given, all the while aware not to pull the plants that bear fruit, for they are what fills the whole. The chain becomes sentient as it lies in the Eden I have created, inching relentlessly towards my soul; its only purpose to recommend and feed like the parasite it is.

I was under the spell of the parasite before, thinking the symbiosis we had was what made me strong, all the while it was secretly destroying my soul, my will, my reason for being.  My daily weeding of the garden of my soul stops the growth of the chain, the chain of addiction that will destroy the garden I have created. 

I will weather the storms, collect the rain, and watch it grow. I've come to accept there will be weeds and to keep my garden bountiful, I must work the field. 

Relentlessly I will farm, reaping what I sow and sharing my harvest. Helping to plant seeds of recovery with those who have staked a claim in this desert hoping to grow a garden of their own. 

May our harvests feed the hungry and fill them with hope.

Russell