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current | archives | profile | rings | email | gbook | host My beautiful garden of weeds Hello, my friends; it's been a bit too long since I've written in this - the temptation is to let it fall gracefully into oblivion, and close a chapter of my life. I started this diary at the beginning of sophomore year, and now high school is over; college has begun. Maybe now is the time to find a new resting place to explore, only slipping quietly back in here from time to time to feel the rush of familiar faces, places, times. I know that, as many things in life, it would soon be covered with weeds- but then, weeds are but flowers never given a chance to be beautiful. From the start, they were ridiculed, said to be ugly, and plucked heartlessly from the small plot they staked off as their own. They longed to be near the flowers, and to bask in a stolen ray of sun. They yearned for a drop of water, run off the flower's petals - but all too often, they falter. They are stunned with sprays, ripped with machines, relentlessly stepped on. They wither and brown, and all too often, they die. But you see, my dear reader, that weeds are flowers, too. In their own right, they are beautiful, but it is the attack upon them that makes them unique. Through all oppression, be it snow, pesticides, or scissors, they manage to thrive, and they always -always- come back. I admire this quality greatly, because I understand that at one point, we are all but a weed. Some of us were naturally born prettier, taller, richer, but never wiser. While those of us that weren't gifted with such right from the start starve under the leaves of these blessed few, we grow wiser, stronger. I have known many flowers in my life, but it is the other weeds I've been closest to. We embraced each other, helped one another through in the hard times, and we watched, as one by one, those among us grew immaculate blossoms and became the most gorgeous of flowers. It has been a long process, and taken most of us nearly all of our lives thus far to blossom, but at last, at last, we have done it. In the past year, there were but four or five of us left, and I watched wistfully as they each in turn shone. At last, at last, it is my time, and I am gorgeous, inside and out, made stronger by the hardships, but, like those past, I must now move on and resettle. There are too many blooms in this part of life, and so we must scatter, or we would surely perish. So, even though, for now, I move on, rest assured that I will venture back often. I will return to the place where my roots were first planted, and I don't mind if weeds have overtaken it. In fact, I will tend to these weeds, water them, and feed them, in hopes that their transformation might be easier, and faster...because unlike some new flowers past, I will not forget the struggle of the years. Though I move on, I don't forget, and though I leave, I will always come back to admire the other flowers, and remember what it was like, to be a weed. You may find my new journal at http://360.yahoo.com/mahtob_6787 |
