A sudden and urgent sense of despondency has hit me like something beautiful has passed into the shadows. Something tender and fresh. Have you seen a garden in the city? Neat grass and rows of flowers and a walking track surrounded by trees and a play area with some broken swings? Everyday I think when I pass one that it is something beautiful, the empty benches tempting me to sit for a while. But today suddenly once the shadow crept in I saw a garden for what it was.
A cage for trees and flowers. A place for those among flora that are easy to grow and cultivate and maintain and quick to grow. The whores among trees and bushes and leaves and seeds and flowers. And when night arrives their colours fade and they didn’t have a lot of fragrance to begin with anyway. Will you find a lonely oak or a banyan in a garden? Never. There are innumerable people loving a beautiful rose that smells like heaven and always looking like the Platonic rose, always living upto itself but what I am in love with is the prick of the thorns of the self-same rose because they draw blood in me and they stay there for ever and ever and ever so I can fool myself that the thorns are for me and me alone. Then suddenly it strikes me that they too just are – and I am no one. Do you know how trees are in a jungle? They move. They talk. They feel. And how do they do all of that? By growing roots wherever they want to go and entangling deep into one another so you stop knowing which is you and which is me. Trees in a garden are like the very same humans in a city – separate, clustered, fiercely independent with shallow roots so that there’s no pain when they are cut. All they are is above the ground.
All the beauty without the life in it.
Only enough room for you not to have any more.
Just enough space to not escape.
But nothing more.
Flit flit flit.
Because that’s convenience. That’s pleasant. That’s fun.
And all we want is fun. That’s what we live for.
Let’s live only in a garden and never step foot in the jungle.
Send me my cage now. I am ready to enter it again. Because the roots, i think, they will be too much. For you. And maybe even for me. The thorns have blunted my skin has thickened and calloused.
I am full of odd sensations, all of them cold. All the landscapes around me are fogged and the fog will thicken much more, I know.
The shadows are growing. It is the season of winter.
And when it is winter, it seems it always will be.