Disclaimer: I am not sitting in a bramble bush, that would hurt.

The bramble bush of life, you may conjecture, might perhaps be the subject of this rambling; alas, it is not so.

Why the bramble bush of life? What made you jump to that conclusion? Well, perhaps it is an innate human trait(rhyme)  to assume that anything remotely bad or not immediately linked to an event is about life; that is because we have no imagination, absolutely none.

I hate to lead you on like this, I do. But I am not done explaining myself.

We lack imagination, it is simple; I am sorry that you had to find out in this way.

No, this bramble bush is about much more, and it has been around for years, I believe it would be sacreligion even, to tell you, to reveal its secrets and to vehemently cry as I am in desperation; members of secret societies do not give away the location, not the time, nor place, nor subject of the matter, they are simply too concerned about its safety, for you see, it is a lover, binding you in the most seductive way. Clandestine in every way that it can touch your body. I am concerned, however, but it has been a vicissitude, and only a vicissitude, that would lead me to where I am now. Alone, and near a bramble bush.

Our bramble bush. 

Ah, see, this bramble bush, it calls to you and it pricks like a thorn, not a bramble. It stings, like a bee, not a bramble. In the night, it loses its leaves and weeps, like a wound, not a bramble. The bramble bush is not a concept but an fear.

The bramble bush is a fluctuation of human relevance. It sheds it leaves and leaves you cold, shivering, upset, shocked. Choque. Alone.

It wakes in the morning with a scent of newness, of hope, of fearful expectation. Butterfly fear. This bush is a thorn in disguise, and yet it is a pine tree; a proprietor of sporadic intrusion, auspicious in what it says, does, the way it stretches its legs across a  road and yet helps you not to trip when you should have fallen.

I don’t know what to say other than that I am scared. You see, the bramble bush has lost its leaves for me, and yet I have them in my hands, as if I have commited this seamless crime. Perfectly it has blamed me.

The blood is on my hands and the ball is in its branches.

For, what I didn’t tell you was that it betrays you. Cajoles you, leads you by the hand and bites its lip. It shows skin and it whispers polite atrocities into your ear, and you end up biting your lip too before long and eventually you are running away with it down a darkly lit hall in your best heels and your hair is flying behind you.

Rose petals lead the way to the bedroom door, and it takes you, lays you down gently with its hand on your back. It loves the way you look in red satin.

It shuts the door and it tells you that it won’t be long.

You feel a hot flame at your foot and at first you look to Hope, Fearful Expectation- you look for Hope to tell you that it is just the coals heating, tonight you are getting a hot coal massage. Bargaining grabs you by the arm, violently, forcing you out of the desperation that breeds your assumption.

The room lights up; you can’t see, your throat closes up and your hands climb to your throat. You grab, onto your throat and onto the dark oak bedside table. Your expensive satin, for you always dress well for this dark surprise, you never know when it may bite its lip, after all, and your velvet lined shoe falls the the floor.

Before long you are surrounded by hot fire. True Fear.

It licks you, laughs and cackles. Before long you are gone. Ash. And it plants you in a seed.

That is what it does, it takes you, and destroys you. It renews you so that you think it has helped. When you grow again, when you are new, you buy a new dress, but this time it is light blue.

There is still a fire, but you never know when. Dark Hope distracts you. You forget about the fire, and it forgets to keep you safe.

False Hope is a bitch, but it’s also a bramble bush.

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