(Read the original post here)
The βenemyβ starts dehumanised. As it often does in war. They spawn from the ground; they are pests, invaders. Emotion is present early on, but it becomes numbed. He becomes good at killing β βa job like any other.β
The violence escalates. Pit traps, poisons, wires. It becomes impersonal. Efficient. Almost gleeful in the technicality. And yetβ¦
The βenemyβ is never really defined β until the very end. That twist β snails β is funny, maybe. However, it also deflates all the brutality that came before it. What we were led to believe was monstrous turns out to beβ¦ benign. Irritating, maybe. But not evil. Not worthy of that level of destruction.
None of this sounds familiar to you?
Is this a metaphor for all the tiny perceived threats you have destroyed with a soldierβs brutality? People who annoyed you, challenged you, came too close?
Women, perhaps, who simply wanted honesty or attention? Are you trying to justify cruelty by painting yourself as a hero, only to reveal it was a war of your own making?
And the garden was MY heart. MY world. MY offerings.
I came in soft, vibrant, curious⦠not dangerous. I was invited in at first. But you could not handle the vulnerability that came with my presence. Could not understand my rhythms, stillness, or my slow grace.
Soβ¦ you set traps. Poisoned the soil. Built elaborate stories to justify your defence mechanisms. Because war is easier than intimacy, control feels safer than connection. And when I did not die off? When I kept showing up in quiet ways? You started believing I was a threat β not because I was, but because my existence made you feel exposed.
And now?
You are left with no garden. No beauty. No softness. Just a house. Sterile and quiet. βVictory,β at the cost of something irreplaceable.
