You know when you’re sitting on grass and it’s soft, but not? It’s that feeling of the smooth blades through your fingers, each strand of green reaching for your touch. Like velvet it changes colour when you push it one way to the next. Sometimes you can find grass that’s smooth like a fresh haircut and sometimes you’ll find grass that’s sharp like needles.
This story is not about grass, but it does begin with it.
Picture that special time before sunrise, the sneaky crack of dawn. It’s the time where you either hate yourself for waking up or love yourself for seeing something as beautiful as day breaking through the night. It’s spring, there’s a light breeze unsure of if it wants to pick up. You step out onto the grass and feel in between your toes a little brew of lush grass, dew and dirt. To put into a word, it’s fresh.
Unfortunately for me, I could not describe my morning as fresh. Sure I got up at some ungodly hour and sure I had grass stuck to my shoes but I was too busy being bustled about by the innards of the tram to think about it. Smells of fresh air were but a dream and personal space was a joke. I could only dream of the thought of returning to places where I could enjoy nature, but in a world of concrete and business, there was no room for wonder let alone grass.
