Grass

There is almost no grass where I work- the company pays for meticulous landscaping, perfectly trimmed bushes, creeping plants to cover freshly laid mulch, and mature trees to dot parking endcaps like exclamation points. Every inch is manicured, and cared for, and artificial. The only real thing is this small stretch of grass, forgotten, and used merely to separate one parking lot from another.

It’s lonely and loud and beautiful on this small stretch of grass where the wind plays in my hair, the sun kisses my face, and tiny blades tickle my toes. It is a world apart from that sterile inside place where keyboards click and the sounds of polite conversation can be heard from every corner.

Out here I watch the gentle roll of clouds as they pass by; inside the only thing to watch is the constant countdown of the computer clock. You become desperate or die, everyday you lose another piece of your soul to the sterile sanity of the system, everyday you conformity becomes more complete- unless you find your stretch of grass….and take root.