One of the reasons I love moss is how it provides a bed for other plants upon inhospitable surfaces. Moss quietly goes about its work, an advance guard enduring terrible conditions which would either rot or parch lesser warriors, terraforming bit by bit. Moss is very patient, and after it often comes the weeds–also ignored and maligned, surviving despite it all.
The work goes on, ever and always. Life creeps in just like hope; while I often dislike the latter for its habit of kicking me in the teeth once I allow it purchase, the former is beyond my small feelings. It will continue no matter what I think.
Sometimes I find comfort in that.
Anyway, it’s the Ides of March, or as we refer to it around the house, Happy Stab-a-Dictator Day. The Republic was a bloodbath, the Empire somewhat worse, and both were afflicted by murderous power-greedy bastards. Wonder if there are a few lessons to be learned there–oh, I’m sure humanity will ignore them, I just wonder if they exist, hmm?
On that cheerful note, I shall be sailing into the weekend. This week has been…odd, indeed. I’m hoping for a chance to take a breath.