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Weeding

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June 1, 2017 The wanderer's backyard I try to keep my garden of optimism neat, but pesky pessimistic weeds make it a grueling feat. The vines they come a-creeping ere my hands have left the ground, smothering my flowers every time I turn around. I plant new seeds and watch them as they wither and decay; I prune my plants with care and sigh as each leaf falls away. I dig and dig but ne'ertheless the weeds invade once more, till eventually I fear I'll be consumed by this wretched chore. And then one day a bird alights beside me in my garden: it pecks and plucks the rotten weeds and my flowers bloom again. In other news, Phillop the lopsided willow has almost reached the ground, and the chipmunks are merrily larking about as usual. Life prevails, weeds or no.
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Old Writings

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May 18, 2018 I stumbled across some of my old writings from when I was 15 and role-playing as wolves. Can you tell all I was reading at this time were 19th century British novels? His lips curled into a devious smile at the she-wolf’s words. He knew quite well that he was uttering nonsense; he needed not her reminder. Leaf was speaking his thoughts without heed, and, as said thoughts were somewhat fanciful at the moment, he was well aware that he was being somewhat ridiculous. Leaf appeared as if he did not believe her, even though he was quite assured that she spoke only truths. Her unemotional manner did seem supernatural to him, however. How she could manage to stay so utterly impassive he could not conceive. The temperamental brute secretly yearned to figure out the tricks of her trade, earnestly wishing that he, too, could be so tough to faze. Discerning that the strange she-wolf appeared to be scrutinizing him, his countenance instantly became cold and stern. “T...
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