You Are What you Seed

The software update we experience ourselves as 20-something adults can include a multitude of bugs. Seeded and carried to term, love is the source in which many of these bugs squirm. Handled temperamentally, your Earth will grow green and gnarly, a biosphere that redacts instances of ‘i love you’s’ into a circular economy currency. A lot of people will treat the world they have created with ignorance, the naivety that was prematurely installed an unworthy opponent to our unbeknown and fated limerence. An infestation will occur and rot ourselves from the inside out, withstanding these natural disasters crumpled on the ground as puddles by our own purist devout; to cry is to water our roots and seeds strong so that they may become sprouts.

My individual edition came out in the month of March, a subscript of hope so small that bore ripe from a pure formulaic love. I grew up to reconcile with what some may frame the mightiest bug of all; the lovebug. Tantalizing but torturous, this bug comes with nothing but idealistic beliefs.

Belief has nothing and everything to do with our senses, building our past mistakes up against us like barbwire fences. Alluding to our pain can be done in a multitude of fashions: making ourselves feel full off of mistaken physical passion, turning our noses from addictive pheromones to that of snot-filled, salty action, the gorge or purge we endure once we realize we forgot how someone’s love once tasted, the memory-framed phrases drawing laughter that become estranged into lonely words and attack from those in near conversation; the finality of a belief that once thrived on these skills now dead and crumbled, an advert for happily-ever-after.

We cannot predict the future, but we can rely on our senses to inform us of our own unique way. Though I am easily hurt, I am inadvertently tough, a world adaptable to the wants and needs of anything that feeds; I love my lovebug, for she always finds nourishment in the feast of her feats.