I carry bits and fragments of story in my heart. If I've read something of yours its in there: waiting, simmering, percolating.
Perhaps it's just a seed in the dark, waiting for some water. Other bits have sprouted, pushed up tiny green leaves up through the loam of my soul, that bed of shredded ink stained paper. If you trowel through the dirt, sometimes you can read a word or two. Sometimes only a single letter remains.
But what a garden! Twisted vines of plot, climb over the walls. It blooms with unused adjectives. Some of the sprouts are aromatic, spicy, I clip a little, sprinkle it onto my pages daily. Others wilt and die, go back into the soil untended, waiting again to be reborn into something else.
It's all there, a lifetime of reading, decaying and growing. I am overrun.
Will you think this tangled jungle, infested with fungal spirals of confused tense and spotted petals of character, ugly? Would you dig down into the mud, find the beating heart that pumps blood into those tangled roots, and shut off the valve? Or will you recognize that small bit of you in there?
Sometimes I think I should hire a gardener.
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There's truth to this, digging past the metaphor. Once we've taken something into us, it is there inside, and we cannot simply regurgitate it and be free of its influence. We are already touched by it, and will be influenced by it, whether we intend to be or not.
Regardless of whether it's a good or bad influence - it's always there in some form. I don't think I could take out the bad without killing the good stuff though. It's too mixed up together.
Hahaha! Wonderful way to end and beautifully written all the way through.
Thanks Miss Rosemary! Good to see you around online again!
Lovely!
Thank you!
That was rather quite splendid.
Thank you David!
A story gardener? Oh, you mean an editor!
That's the idea ;) Though free volunteers are more than welcome!
Nice little snippet. I like how this works as metaphor.
Thanks Aidan :)