Cut your grass!
They say that. You have done that. You tell them you have done that. They say that it is a lazy reply, typical for a child: try reading a book — I already read one!
But had you phrased it differently, they would understand. You have been cutting that grass.
You're a sort of gardening-perfectionist. You want a straight, hard lawn with short grass.
Thriving. Nothing tickles your nerves more than this word. A saying goes stating that grass has a tendency to grow too high, and that a lawn that often gets cut is thriving. Well, it just isn't true. In most cases so, but not in yours.
You're one of those people who can't effort energy enough to go out and cut your lawn, they understand that, they say. After all it is a common problem in these grounds.
The only problem, though, is that it isn't true either. You see, you love cutting your grass. Because you want a straight lawn so badly that you are willing to spend hours and hours making it so — or what ever else is needed. But you know... know, know that if you do so, then it dies.
And kill it you won't.
People are staring. So, you've build yourself a tall, massive fence. 'Tis black, so it casts a huge shadow over your grass, should someone manage to get a peek. Black shortens, goes the saying. But in the first place you're hoping to just hide it.
People sometimes give you advice on how to keep your grass short. It pierces your heart and makes you boil. People always know so much! It is also why you will never have to keep your secret. You'd love to talk about your trouble with grass. But if you said it, they won't believe you, why? It's easy: your grass is high.
If your grass is high, you aren't cutting it too much. But you tried cutting it more, and you nearly ended up with a sand box. One year it was just on the bordering before it couldn't shed seeds. Course, that was good in some way as no innocent lawn deserves DNA from your ugly grass.
You're in your garden, alone, crying. When your parents took away the machine, you spend hours and hours cutting the grass with a pair of scissors. And when they took those away, you ripped it off with your hands.
It prevented you from living a normal life. You never had time for anything because you had to cut your grass. And for a short time it was actually short, and people were impressed with your progress.
But as you saw it dying, better thoughts came to your mind and you now live in your jungle again.
They look at your grass, and they think you've lost all your willpower and your patience again. And something explodes within you. You feel most like tearing them to pieces, or even better, yourself with them watching. You lack no will, you lack a way. And you lack no patience, you just haven't time!
You once had a friend who had a problem with a dry lawn. They were always complaining, but to you it felt like mockery. And you envied them with all your heart.
You're still in your garden, still crying. On your knees. You extend your fingers into the dirt. It's juicy. It's rich. It'd be such a nice feel wasn't it for the fact that it grows such thick grass. You lift your gaze, capturing the tears just for a second. Butterflies whirling all around you. The sun sending golden rays through the green strays that dye them in the same lively shade so the lawn lights up as if radioactive. Pretty flowers of all the rainbow crawling up your tall, black fence as if spilled from a bucket of mixed paint. This instant you see it: the very beauty of your garden, the great amount love which you actually hold for it. These moments. These moments are the sole reason why you don't burst out with fury whenever someone comments it. It is why you take it as your responsibility instead, though it wasn't meant for you. It is why you keep going and never give up. And maybe you should give up, right here you always seem to find the exact amount of resource, of relief, that you need to keep up your facade just a little further.
You know that this instant is, as those so often are, instantaneous. You know that in a moment you will, once again, be measuring the grass with your fingers. The ruler has been taken away from you. Regretfully, irritatedly, you'll be biting your lip when seeing the distance between your fingers.
But at this moment, in this instant, you find, you are in, what you best know as peace.