Feelings come and go, just like friends who appear and fade away like so many grains of sand plastered over the beach, few substantial, some significant, but mostly fleeting. It is rather troubling to note that I go through this same thought process many times a year, and though some last for mere days, most drag on for months on end, sowing emo-seeds of self-contemplation into the arable neural farmland of my cranium.
Without much tender care or high-tech agricultural machinery, these seemingly-insignificant seeds will waste no time into blossoming to towering canopies of sunlight-blockading evergreen structures of despair. They constantly grow, evolving into newer, more dangerous strains as time goes by, furthering barricading the once-healthy farmland from the rest of the world, sapping the nutrients from the once-fertile soil while leaving nothing behind.
Alas, all it takes is for the farmer himself to raise his double-barrel, point it towards the heavens, and pull the trigger. As the buckshot soars towards the suffocating cover of darkness with relentless determination, the farmer knows that he can begin cultivating his more profitable cash crops soon, once the darkening canopy is destroyed.
In an instant, the rounds breach the desecrating trees, eradicating one structure, with the others falling away soon after, leaving but a single pod behind, ready to burst open at a moment's notice should the opportunity arise. This particular pod remains hidden from view, concealed from prying eyes, immune to even the most advanced scrying techniques, awaiting the best moment to shroud the entire world in darkness once again.
For now, all is sunny, all is well.
It took a while, and the battle was tough, but the armistice has been signed once again.
The Rebuilding is complete.
