The Beauty Of Weeds

I watched him, silently, from a distance, stealthy as a fox. Well, maybe not the stealthy part. Not only did I possess the reflexes of a slug, my mother was also apparently a giraffe, meaning no matter how hard I tried, my face would still stick out even if I possessed the physical capabilities of actually being able to duck behind a bush without tripping over a non-existent object So here I was, a cross between a slug and giraffe, hoping that if he ever turned around, I would be able to escape in an elegant and graceful manner and never see his face again. 

Anyone passing by would see a “slugiraffe” (See what I did there?) stalking a guy who she had a crush on. Wrong. I was a “slugiraffe” OBSERVING a guy who just happened to be kind of cute. And I wasn't interested in the guy, well, maybe a little, I was interested in what he was doing. And the guy too. But that's beside the point. 

He was crouching beside a rose bush, unsuccessfully trying to pry away the roses while juggling a camera in the other. It was the beginning of spring; the roses a beautiful shade of light pink, scented with sweet, delicate perfume. Not that I could smell it, but whatever. So there he was, pushing away the most beautiful roses spring had seen, and taking a picture of something. I know what you’re thinking. What could possibly more beautiful than the first roses of spring? Well, the guy I was stalk-observing, thought weeds could be.

Yes, weeds. Yet he found them beautiful. But the more I watched him, the more I thought. Maybe weeds ARE beautiful.

I can’t really explain it with words, but they were beautiful. Because I was seeing them. I acknowledged them, saw that they were there. I saw things now. The guy showed me this world. A world where I didn’t skim through a street and remember nothing afterwards. A world where I saw that person walking over there, that shop selling odd bits and bobs. I saw and remembered the old, patient tree, the cement pathway that millions of feet had stepped on, saw the electricity lines that allowed me to see at night. I saw it all. 

Oh no. Just no. he’s looking at me. During my mental monologue about the beauty of weeds, the guy had turned around. I now had two options: Fight or flight. Actually, not fight. More like: Face the guy I’m stal-observing and flight. Any other day, I would have tripped over my feet then started running. But today was different. Because maybe he would see past me, just like he had seen past the weeds, how I had seen past the things in the street. Maybe he wouldn’t see the ‘slugiraffe’ in front of him.

Maybe, he would see me.

by: http://www.write4fun.net/view-entry/253618