There is no good time to turn the compost, I guess. It always smells weird, and there will always be hundreds of living abominations festering underneath the compounded layers of rotting crap I've been throwing on top of the pile.
Same as always, it'll never be worth saving if I don't get in there with a shovel at some point to turn the fly-food into something more. The decomposing stuff of my finite existence is the only substance that has a shot at outlasting me -- all the energy I put into making that stuff work; all the crap I gave up on, all the deep roots I abandoned just because someone else did -- they retain the vital agony of life, even the things that died by a machete I held in my own hands.
Even the things I strangled with my own death-grip, that I made sure would never breathe another molecule of my own precious air.
No matter how many times I turn the pit, the act never gets easier, and I am mortally incapable of seeing the good in the soil before it becomes such. It always hurts; it is always so unnatural, so selfish of me to grow my own legacy out of someone else's decaying, rotting pain.
No comments:
Post a Comment