Yesterday I was sat in a paddock of wild flowers, pink and purple and white. Those delicate flowers that look like green wheat, but they aren’t, caught the wind, blowing and tapping against my bare shoulders. It was beautiful. But I’d waded through stinging nettles to get there, the patch of ground I rested on was scraggy and rough, there was something invisible to me that kept prickling my knee, and big-ass blue bottle flies established me as their resting ground almost immediately. Still, this was my version of perfection for the day: it wasn’t perfect, it was a little troublesome, but it felt peaceful and good.
I'm giving zero fucks about... my fear of fe…
Yesterday I was sat in a paddock of wild flowers, pink and purple and white. Those delicate flowers that look like green wheat, but they aren’t, caught the wind, blowing and tapping against my bare shoulders. It was beautiful. But I’d waded through stinging nettles to get there, the patch of ground I rested on was scraggy and rough, there was something invisible to me that kept prickling my knee, and big-ass blue bottle flies established me as their resting ground almost immediately. Still, this was my version of perfection for the day: it wasn’t perfect, it was a little troublesome, but it felt peaceful and good.
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