Efflorescence
By Mene Tekel
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In the house I grew up in, there was a garden. The garden was feral, one tended by angels or the dead. It was through the swollen back door, and down a shaded path and through the trees. I followed the path to the garden often, almost daily. I never felt alone when heading to the garden.
The path from my house went deep for miles into the forest until the scent of water and life practically overwhelmed your senses. You would wander to a small tranquil waterfall and its’ pool. The pool was just deep enough to wade through without soaking your knees. The water was a silky, stabbing liquid frost that was close in temperature to ice. The liquid didn’t freeze, instead it gave your nerves tickles of both intense agony and pleasure. It would feel catalytic.
When you made it across the pool the unkind breeze would rush at you, playing its’ game of tag with your shins, and drying your lower body with a chilling, cynical apathy. At this point, you would remove your footwear and place it on a nearby boulder. You would follow the rest of the path barefoot. It would feel liberating.
The sharp needles and occasional rocks would pierce your feet with apologetic regret. They would cut gashes in your soles that would eventually scar. Your blood would mix with the soil and you were one. It would feel essential.
The shade provided by the trees would be just transparent enough for the sun to burn you in a soft, reminding way and the radiance would fill the cup of your soul to the brim. It would feel powerful.
As you would walk, the trees would soliloquize as if they were talking to themselves. They shared stories and gossip about the innumerous loves they had and how each tree’s opinion was its own right to force upon another, however inconsiderately. You would listen intently to their shallow lives, regardless of the fact that you would not be able to relate to the stresses of a tree. You would occasionally butt in with your own vices and virtues, but you would realize that the trees had no ears. For this, you would forgive them silently and continue your journey along the path. You would slowly begin to ignore their squabbling with disdain. It would feel peaceful.
The trees would not bear any fruit and hunger would begin to take its’ hold after trekking for so many miles. There would be no wild animals around, at least not visibly, and so your hunger would go unsaturated. It would feel lonesome.
There would be shrubs and mosses and bushes along the path, blended in with the trees. They would provide little conversation. They would sing low and quiet or recite somber poetry. They would be barely audible above the volume of the trees, but you would be able to make out enough. The moss’s prose would often be difficult to understand. In respect, you would not dare offer an opinion on what should be critiqued. You would have tried to capture their momentous efforts of artistic expression but it would not be right to do so. You would venture on. It would feel disappointing.
Eventually, the sunlight would become stronger than usual and the trees and their gossip, the shrubs and their songs would fade from the path. They would be replaced with long blades of grass. They would not speak to you, they simply hummed and hummed. It would be without harmony, all it would be is a relaxing buzz. You would see no necessity to grow annoyed and your bare feet would continue on. Amid all the humming grasses would be wild and dangerous plants. They would be covered in briars and thorns, and they would try to steal from you, trip you up, and make you miserable. This is how they gained their life. You would have to fight them back, as they inched toward you, attempting to steal your life. Soon they would fade behind you and suddenly, the ground would not feel so hard and pleasurably painful but it was soft, soft, soft. It would feel relaxing.
Then you would know you had arrived to the flowerbed. The flowerbed that God Himself saw fit to take care of. A garden that puts Eden to disgrace. There were flowers so thick you could not breathe. They would tear up your eyes to look at them, and swell your nostrils and redden your face. Your tears would fall to your tattered feet to mingle with your blood and dirt. In the air you breathed were infinite amounts of butterflies, the playful insects of bliss. They would range in size from the extent of birds to the infinitesimal proportion of dust. They would find your sweating face tantalizing and swarm all around it. They would whisper their secrets to you. You would ignore them. You were lost in the flowers. It would feel blissful.
The flowers would also vary in size and color. They would smell of essences and extracts and tastes for the nonexistent. Many of the flowers would be exotic undiscovered species. The aromas would give you intellectual revelations by the thousands. Some would tranquilize you, some would stimulate you, others would even make you feel as if you had somehow stopped existing. It would feel invigorating.
The only thing better than the scents of the flowers would be their thoughts. For trees talk, and shrubs sing, but flowers dream. You would be able to hear them clear as tuning into a radio. Dreams of pure euphoria, new days, new dawns, new life. Creation and love and ecstasy all blended into one idealistic imagining. Some dreams would be covered in kisses. Others would be covered in blues and pinks. Others would be full of purpose, wisdom, and patience. Some would even have ambition, respect, and encouragement. Others would be accepting, approving, comforting. Some would be pure affection. You would be filled with each and every colourful one. There would be no dreams of darkness, nor dreams of pain. The flowers would not be sick, they would be pure. It would feel euphoric.
As you would brush past each petal and the insects would float past you, you would come to the center of the field were a large walnut tree would stand. It would be immensely taller than all the trees of the forest, they would only think they were higher than the walnut tree. You would eat some of the fruits it left on the ground and gaze up into the towering branches. It would feel intimidating.
You‘d feel the seeds you ate growing inside you. Then you would try to climb the branches to get at the top, but would slip endlessly on the trunk, without getting a foothold. The perpetual dropping would skin your body. The blood would flow all over it, but it wouldn’t hurt. Your clothes would be ripped off and you would be naked and unashamed. You still would not give up your attempt to climb the massive tree. It would feel frustrating.
Eventually the walnut tree would reach down its’ thick branches and lift you up to the roost. You would rise and there would be billions of lanterns hung in the tree branches, each one lit despite the broad daylight. You would look out across the fields of flowers, so endless that the forest is not visible. Nothing else is visible other than the flowers. You would feel more complete than you ever have or ever will, naked and covered in blood, like in birth. Full of the essence of life, rid of all death. It would feel absolute.
You would slowly become a lantern like the others surrounding you. It would feel fantastic.
I am never leaving and I am never looking back.

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