The hulking weeds loomed over me, casting their dark shadows across the serene ground. Their twisted vines had wormed their way into the earth, seeping into the soil like a cancer, staking an illegitimate claim on this blessed place. They mocked me as I tried to wrest them from the ground with my hands, but they would not budge. Defeated, I slinked back to my meager shack, inconspicuous in a remote woodland village miles away from any society or modern convenience, to resume my miserable career as a blogger.
But today, they shrivel at the sight of my textured bamboo gardening gloves, a gift from a stranger with a mind beyond human comprehension, who spoke of things I dared not understand. The gloves afford me a grip so strong that I tear each weed from the ground as a prehistoric reptile would tear its prey, and I hurl the weeds into the hole I have dug for them.
Layer by layer, I remove the weeds from the ground, until the earth is revealed, naked and unashamed. I look closely at the soil, sniffing its deep, pungent scent. This dirt, these ungodly grubs that inhabit it, I own them. I own them not because I crawl across the ground like a dog, but because I am the apex predator of the earth. I am above this soil. I am above these weeds. I am above all that is weak. I OWN THIS GROUND.
