There is a strangely familiar field in a distant land. It's surrounded by woods being decayed for centuries. Despite the decadence around, that field is oddly fertile, as if giving a shelter to everything that escaped the deprivation in the surroundings. It faces the clear blue sky everyday, trying to keep the fecundity intact, facing its utter solitude. The field shuns away anything that is not worthy of effort that it mustered to survive the tyranny of atrophy, accepted readily by its fellow grains in the surrounding.
It's an utterly difficult and lonely task, sowing seeds and watching them grow in that land, for it has been very skeptical and selective of what ever tends to penetrate it. But someone has to do it. The land deserves to be skeptical and still receive the effort, to be difficult and still receive the touch and to be complex and still receive the simplicity of an even more complex farmer, who ploughs that field everyday. That land deserves that, more than anything.