The fertile garden to which we aspire.

What do you feel when you know not what you feel? What do you do when you know not what to do? How might one ordinarily react to extraordinary circumstances – I guess there’s only one way to know.

I seek salvation outside of myself, even though I know it only lies within. I can feel a future just within reach: I hope, or perhaps it’s better to say, I am scared to hope for the fear of pain.

That same pain, over and over again,

Each time dressed just a little different, and yet I cannot ever be sure that what I’m seeing is believing.

Tentative, hopeful, doubtful and certain that this path may lead to a better garden, but this begs the question: is where I am already not good enough? If I hope for something different, but does this not mean that I am unsatisfied with where I currently am? I enjoy my garden as it is, but I hope to visit another and co-tend in their garden. I repeat: my garden is fertile and alive, as the sparkle in a baby’s eyes.

To hope is to create conditions for sadness, and so I refrain. Rooting myself in the present, feeling what is and needs to be felt, so as to avoid that cold, hollow sensation – that dementor’s kiss.

Despite that, I still hope; I still yearn for the kiss. Not a dementor’s, no, but real flesh and blood.

I already feel alive, with blood coursing through my veins, and yet I hope for the press of another. Not in a way that reeks of insecurity and safety, but in the way that two embrace and move in sync to rhythmic beat of their hearts pressed as close as can be. A union of souls lost and found.

Thereout in the future exists a garden, fertile and alive – I hope to visit there. Maybe it will be soon, maybe it will be later, and maybe it will be never. Regardless, where I presently sit is good enough, despite the cold winter mornings and dreary seattle rain, I enjoy it despite the weather.

maybe one day,

maybe one day,

maybe.

one.

day.

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