I Wish to Lose Paradise Again
It is autumn, and September leans to ferity. The soil has mothered again, and what a cruel sight it is that the living is dead. Of utter vice it is to awake the ash from its slumber, only for you to slate spectacles of regression upon its newest consciousness. Withering weather, falls as heights of pleasure, coruscating figures as ancestral links, transparent coffins as valedictory.
Before, there was oblivion, and after, all shalt become obsidian. To be aware of the oblivion dispatches a letter to a most vacant and vacated space: Our origin and birth before carnations were given maternity. And to crown obsidian forebodes the existence of the oblivion. The former bears autonomy, whilst the latter holds attachment.
And death forms meaning when it means nothing, for without it, no deer turns wan, no hawk loses flight, no owl grieves its eyesight. A burning mother, a copious lily, a frosty fox that leave my diary door occupied. Death means nothing for an instant.
I’ve been bewitched by a gardenless gardener. No name, a mere shadow walking around, waiting for the seasons to befriend emancipation. To be defined by a garden as a doll is of reliance to its lass proposes this very affair. As death apprehends all things, beauty and infidelity are one specie, and so this garden discarded its water and irrigator.
The loss of the garden meant the loss of self. God’s garden revamped as a barren, idle land. His own hands, victims of self-sculpture, shaken by pride and fury. If he lost the garden to earth, then earth must lose its garden to him. Pseudonymous and crestfallen, his bed rots with flesh.
To create a build of a rudimentary system- the residential tower that forcefully embraces us is but a highly-ordered complot for humanity to seek the higher dimensional consciousness present above the universe’s skies. To deprive means to behold a thought of calculated compensation; desperation as the greatest forms of prayer.
Paradise, our supposed first inclination, an incubus in disguise. My fingers are steady and precise for I seldom fear anything in the world. Yet, one promise from the ruler of heaven has my contemplation of whether the frozen snowflakes can ever burn my skin, and if this ignited wood could ever impale me.
Paradise means the loss of humanness at the cost of computed sense of perfection. An uncanny normalization that the streets of gold, already of existence, prey above the blood of deceived mortals. The flowing rivers of greed would make for a serene refuge when he refuses to lend a hand to the depletion of waters on earth. You wish to lead earth to decimation because she is your mother.
That my sister who is no twin, my own mother and father, would contract an age I, too, would be familiar with. An eerie realization that in that place, my beloveds, my neighbors, and my ancestral bonds are of my maturity. That Jesus, casted away at thirty and three, would live to see us celebrate that age for all eternity. With Mary on his side, looking across his shoulder as his youthful face resembles hers. He is his mother’s son, after all, but would she still be his mother?
This fear generates itself as I remember what age implicates here: All history would be annulled, and thus, I would recoil back to a womb that knows nothing of warmth or my force to escape. Or worse, it means I would have emanated like an unsharpened blade with no soldier.
I fear meeting my mother as a girl and wishing to protect her solitude. I fear that she would no longer recognize me; I would become nobody’s daughter when God made me a descendant of a family tree. He knew all along that one day, we will have to trade that slavery to that freedom. I know not which is lamentable.
If the gates renounce my soul for the reasons I am writing before you, and my dreams of macabre fall confident that my lips shalt not taste the grapes of a most opulent vine, then an unusual treason must occur. As my beloveds wander around the wondrous creek, with their wishes of reach, then how will they feel when they are of knowledge that a life companion is tasting the insatiable fires? If paradise is a place of no sorrow, then would my family still be my family if they cannot sense a mourning in themselves for me?
If that is the accolade, then I am not an instrument. I confute a New Jerusalem.
If paradise was really lost because of the doings of a woman, then I shalt not partake in the nulling of her wish. She has always known, it seems, what paradise means, just as much as I do. Her dereliction led extrication.
She did not lose paradise, she evaded it. It was never a curse; it was a benedict omen.
However, earth is but another bastille to consciousness for it was of an inferior alternative to paradise. Here, the grapes die after a hundred and twenty-five years, and in heaven, they sit eternally.
September leans to ferity; I detest inception. The act of life, from the beginning, is for his pleasure as he waits for the right drop of sand to pour loss upon our heavy weights. The act of eternity places the subject as a trifle of abuse. Only the act of death signifies the living for it restores and redeems them back to their primordial homeland.
