Garden of Eden

What romantic, mystical, incomprehensible secrets do the trees know? If they do not know one, is that a pitiful thing? Or is the sun and the moons comings and goings a secret in itself?

Is there something to be known from simply being as the world revolves, spins, whirls, and turns around? I’m not sure. I’m not sure of much.

Looking on from the outside while looking within is a strange feeling. I’ve never thought so clearly and so muddled at once. Is this a feeling known to all who ambulate across earth or is it a novel one that I just now devised in this strange medicated stupor I seemed to have slipped into, onto, or around.

People look at me and respond to things I say and do, this is how I know I exist. This is not the best of perspectives to have claimed as my own. It turns me into a dependent self-conscious fool. As I think about this it turns my minds eye back to reality, back to my tangible, worldly self. We must stomp, snuff out such instincts. That is the focusing on your worldly cultured being, your wants, your needs, your ego. All of these lead to muddied thoughts. Thoughts from the mediastinum are not to be completely ignored but focusing on these thoughts is what brings you down, shuts out the ability to transcend bodily functions, crude and repetitive but so incredibly intricate. That is medicine to me. Me, me that word is anti-medicine, poison to the mind. Meeeeeeeeeeee. Get it out. I don’t want to know about me, no one wants to know about me. We, we…now that is something worth thinking about. Like a little kid riding a roller coaster. An effortless expression of bliss. That is what we are. I want to know what relates the detestable me to we. In that way me can exist. But not here. Not now. Not while writing. There was more to be said about those woods and their teasing secrets from all depths of time. What is it about the shadows, shrubs, bugs, and light that is so deeply, darkly intriguing. If only I could stop being me and become one, to know, to be incorporated with the ancient fibers of the forever blessed.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.