The Intentions of Ink (#Panic)

It was in a hotel room where my life would change forever.
The information I received while laying on stiff white sheets was that which caused my glass lake of a life to fall prey to a meteor shower of revelations.
Not for the first time in my life, I would move.
Uprooted, rather harshly, like an unwanted weed, but with enough mind to heed the roots as well, so as it would not grow back.
Picking a flower is a snap, a pluck, an instant.
But it is chosen because it is admired.
Picking a weed is a process, a hindrance, a necessity.
And it is done because it must be done.
To dispose of that which is not wanted.

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Cover Photo Credit: Hua Tunan