This is my garden… my garden of dreams, knowledge, inspiration, ideas, creativity, imagination, and spirit. This is where I plant seeds and store pods, where I dry petals and harvest flowers, where fruits are ripened and ciders are aged.
All my being is placed here; All of my aspects are presented here. All of my ideas, knowledge, wisdom, creations, dreams, desires, imagination, senses, instinct, intuition, intimation, and more, are houses here in the garden of my heart.
Here are my Body, Mind, Heart, Spirit, Soul, Blood, and Energy, adorning the walled landscape of this world as pruned hedges of picnic garden.
An externalization of my being, which is reflected back at me, inspiring and reciprocating, concentrating as doubling my being and inspiration. Inspiration, Articulation, and Reciprocation are the nutrients of the soil, garnered from where…
I think to myself, why is writing here not as easy and rewarding and relaxing as picking berries or herbs in a video game? Why is creating articles not as reciprocating and easy and flowing as crafting equipment, scavenging, or adventuring for loot & mysteries in a video game?
Why is this garden specifically the one that is least relaxing and inspiring, and one that is often straining
Why do I always want to write here, but rarely feel like writing here?
As you walk through my garden of genius and generation, take in the sights, smells, sounds, and senses as you would a garden of flowers or fruit blossoms, a rose garden, and hedge arrangement. For this garden holds the seeds of my heart that might sprout health and more in your head, and the fruits of my hearth.
Each idea is planted like a seed, sprouting into an ornamented hedge, a rose bush, a fruit tree, or other mound of vegetable and herb.
Why does so often this feel as a scolding, suppressing metal foundry which covers in exhaustive heat and soot, than freeing, light, and refreshing like a fresh air after an intense workday outdoors…
Why is expression not yet seamless here? Why do writing books reciprocate and inspire so much more than writing pages here?
What is the fundamental difference between the two? The UI? The medium? The length and format?
Why doesn’t it flow, like my relaxed being down a gentle stream or silent river… Why does my being not carry myself into it, beyond the ever incumbent want to write and create here…
Is it a want to write power, performance, and health, than expression which dictates spirit?
Or perhaps it is that writing health and performance is always available, like dreaming toward the heavens, when there is naught feeling of heaven in my heart to express…
The moment I try to picture and imagine different pictures of my garden, it is always immediately straining and constricts my imagination, as if forceful, than fluid and free…
Is it because I am trying, than receiving? If one desires but does not dream, can one develop it? If it does not dictate one, can we truly direct it? The answer in such is to put away for another day, but I cannot wait with this devouring daily drive…
I want to write 10,000 words here every day, as I’ve before, yet what have I to even write?
I want to write and express myself, yet where is what to write and what to express myself?
Why does web development and my digital archive not relax and lighten my heart and spirit and mind and body, and instead burden and weigh on them, squeezing my forehead like a vice grip and tearing my gut downward like a hooked weight?
Why do I not feel free here naturally flow through here as the early morning fog amidst a dewy walled garden?
Why is writing books loose, but writing articles or guides tight and cosntricting?
Why do I feel safe to express here, but not write here?
To truly set out the intention to write, and step through the information to write?
Even the most free format for guides, articles, pages, and more or ideas, does not feeling freeing but still constricting; The note repositories of Unfinished does not naught, but tense my core and make my brain foggy and heart feel heavy…
What is missing?
What is the answer?
Why can I not write here as much as I want?
Why can I not write here consistently?
I should be able to pick berries and flower petals whenever I am here, seeing a weed to pick or a wilted leaf to prune, a new spot for a stone fountain or bird bath, another flower bed, a new planter pot, a spot for a pond, and more fruit trees. Why is my mind and heart and spirit and soul, and body and blood and energy, not abound with energy, ease, and ideas like the myriad and encompassing petals of a Dahlia?
With 10,000 Things To Write and 10,000 Words For Each Thing, Let Alone Infinite Expressivity and Artistry, How Come There Is Naught Even A Drop From My Garden Hose?
Why Does The Spigot of Casque Not Ease The Slightest, and Continuous Flow of Crisp Carbonated Cider Fall Into My Chalice of Cognition and Condition?
Why do I not feel free to walk my garden and read it, like smelling the flowers of bushes and the blossoms of trees?
The articulation of twice yesterday, gone with thrice moon, and I still search for the articulation amidst this foliage…
The right words for the right feeling, the right thought, the idea, and the right longing… Perhaps with the right words, the answer and solution will come, and that is why it flees from my sight, and fights my spirit…
Where is my garden… Have you seen it?
Why can I not spend an eternity here? Why can I not live here? Why can I not rest my soul here and heal my heart here? Why can I not relax and recover here, and sleep with this? Home is where the heart is, so why does my heart not slumber here but for here… As I can lay and nap eternally in the grassy fields of meadows or swaying breezy grass hillsides under azure sunny skies with daydreaming and imagination and intimacy abound…
If I find comfort in imagination and sleeps and dreams, why do I not find comfort but conflict and constriction here…
An albino cloud, as soft as heaven, should be found here, to lay and lounge on…
A grassy tuft, as comforting as freshly washed long hair, should be found here, to nap and nurture in…
A sturdy hiding spot, as embracing and securing as a well stocked bunker, should be found here, to sleep and stay in…
This should be a safe spot, sleep space, and supplying span as far as the idea can see, a sphere of structures, and a season of abundance and existence in itself…
It should encompass my vision like a fullscreen monitor, and feel as safeguarded as a rural power outage…
Nothing should exist outside this space, nothing should ever be able to take me out of this place…
I should be entirely self sufficient here, living where my heart wants yet hasn’t had…
This space should make me sleep better, make me feel safer, make me more feel more fulfilled and content, all like the feelings of childhood in sanctuary…
Why Do I Not Feel Free To Write or Express In My Space, Why Do I Not Want To Do Anything Ever In My Sanctuary?
Why Do I Not Flock Here For Inspiration and Contentness, Yet Do For Past Performances and Other Projects…
Where Is The Key To My Garden?
Everything I Need Should Be Here, and Everything I Want Should Be Found Here… Why Aren’t They?
Apex of Men 