Claiming land.

As my romanticist soul needed fodder I decided to avoid the capital this weekend and spend my time in the countryside; walk in a fairytale forest, fall asleep to the sound of birds and bumblebees and wake up with a bad conscience for getting up way too late to really make use of the spring morning. To repent my horrible sin of sleeping in I took the decision sometime after lunch to crawl up into a flowerbed and dig my fingers deep into the dark dirt. Half nude in the sunshine I encountered plants, worms, centipedes and a thousand yellow ants. As time in the flowerbed went by, I felt the boost of making difference. The difference consisted of me tearing apart homes, exposing roots and insects to the scorching sun and meting out punishment for the plants I found to be weeds and making room for the ones I considered flowers. I felt the omnipotence of my sheer fingerwork and I smiled to myself, excited by my recklessness, feeling the gentle pressure of dirt under my nails, carressing the lovemarks I had inflicted on the ground and despising the weakness of the weed plants spread out around me at an arm's length.

Naturally, the humanist in me is ashamed and frightened. Which only makes the satisfaction more intense.