A place where the soul is full of something more than transience. A place where no one speaks the same language, but everything is understood. Where being lost is the most familiar path, and loneliness is only the scent of a night garden temporarily forgotten, hidden under time, allowed to blossom and bloom unencumbered by human meddling.
My concrete jungle was once a place of endless possibility, brimming out into the sky, whispering through its blinking lights a million different lifetimes each unique and filled with excitement. There was a calm undercurrent which breathed into a world all my own unveiling itself like a painting. But the multi-dimensional aspects soon revealed themselves to be a two-dimensional copy. A poster of paradise posing like an ad for toothpaste. Mouths gaping wide into a twisted smile trying to blind one to the gaping hole beneath.
Through all the clutter and deformation the garden still prospers, fueled by the muck and the mire which feeds its overgrown orchard like compost. We often neglect the importance of the ants and the worms and the bugs and that which allow the death and decay to bring forth new life. I exist somewhere in between, in a world of decomposition and overgrowth, a swampy darkness unchallenged by the cruelty of time, or cold, or heat or any of the purifying elements which give eternity its likeness. Is this where hell comes from? A place so fueled with dank humid sweat. Somewhere beyond my mind I see a desert stretching forth through time, holding secrets that fit so well. Endless oceans, clear night sky, air free from others clambering desires to get inside. soul is the endless desert of dreams, released from the drought. Doubt seems to fade as the shadows do at dusk. I see the dimming light blossom with the colors which the saturating sunlight had burned away. An overexposed photograph brought back into balance.