Grass

It is everywhere, underfoot in everyone's life. Nowhere of consequence, and still everywhere. In the end, everything returns to the earth and turns to grass. And it is nothing, of no importance, really. Even at the end, who thinks of grass as their next destination?

When I am sad, I turn to the grass. It is everywhere, and I can turn to it through crowded streets and rainy windows. Unnoticed, I slip into it, anywhere and everywhere. Like grass, I can be nowhere and nobody, anywhere. Un-peopled, a grassy world is a happy place. It is people that make me unhappy.