I love to believe there is a world that exists above the one I inhabit, where the aroma of petrichor is infinite and concentration is never needed.
Where life seems to effortlessly fall into place, like a snow globe turned right-side up and its ivory flakes float around in a symphony of pure contentment.
A place with vibrant color, but without the need to distinguish a difference; in this world there are no eyes that judge and the blind can always see beyond the frame.
I dream of its parallels and crosses whose spines have not been broken, and the pain of martyrdom has no real purpose to appease an entity justified.
Within this transparent orb, a crystal planet nestled in the longing depths and copper wishes thrown into darkness, I lie inside and observe an endless azure blanket.
There is no age, there is no body, and the heartbeats that countdown have long surpassed pointed hands created as a concept to document.
Everything is eternal in this world, as joy and articulation come natural, and the embrace of understanding come without the desire’s touch.
However, the feeling of such a passion never ceases to end, multiplying its bliss in a sensation that cannot die, despite limited logic.
Composed of everything that simply could not be said and weighed heavy in the mind and mouth, these thoughts express themselves without fear.
Apologies disintegrate and grudges black as spades invert, morphing into two red hills side by side purer than cherry blossoms and droplets never tainted by smog.
It’s the surface above oil pipes slashed like veins, releasing their thick, arrogant blood from prehistoric sorrow, greed, and need for self-destruction.
Where those who starve are worn down and suffocated by the squid’s many arms and pulled under into their graves and resting beneath the soles of boots.
The same universe in which a gun is power, as power is to fear, and fear is to the idea of growth and acceptance and unconditional love.
Perhaps I dream too deeply, and this sphere is just a rotating fantasy behind a pair of ferns speckled with juniper, moss and flourishing pines.
But in this reverie the porcelain orchids and land carry an autumn breeze and the thin, sharp, winter’s death is a knife buried in man’s withering garden.
And most importantly, it doesn’t have to be an ideal thought momentarily drifting from one to another, but can easily become a reality felt by two palms pressed together.