disillusion
I like to think I am personally responsible for repopulating most of Leamington's dandelion community - primarily because I have a pathological compulsion to puff on EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM, whenever encountered. There is something distinctly omnipotent I derive from the dispersal, as though the efforts of exhalation somehow earn me credit for the continuation of their species. There's the sense of summer, of maturation, of new beginnings lying in wait. Every exhalation is a breath of perpetuation, every dandelion diaspora a cultivation of new life. And yes, there is a great deal of childish exuberance in it too, especially when the spores catch the sun just so, winking bright white, drifting groundwards like little summery snowflakes. Invariably, with each puff, I fall in love with nature, over and over again.
This afternoon, while running, I paused to pluck a dandelion from the ground and was STUNG by a NETTLE. My DISILLUSION is BOUNDLESS, as is my RAGE.
Should you have had the opportunity to cross my path at the time, you may have observed me snarling at the shrubbery and violently uprooting the surrounding terrain - partly in search of the dock leaf antidote, and partly out of sheer disgruntlement. I would have taken it out on the nettles, but that would have been a little, you know, dumb.