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?
As my style has always been, I should be able to read it anytime and it should be energizing always. It should never be draining, and I should be able to read it no matter how depleted and deficient and exhausted I am, especially those days laying in bed at 3am looking for inspiration not wanting to sleep yet, and at 5am when I have undoubtedly stayed up too long.
A second idea I had alongside the most prominent, deep, and practical, yet have forgotten it seconds after having it, ahhhhhh…
Why is this still not wholly readable yet, slightly straining staring at this witching hour, wanting to do something yet feel nothing…
Why is it exhausting and repulsive to my eyes to even try reading…. is it the dis-fluidity of the ideas and plants, forming disjointed ideas without flesh like paragraphs of past and peers and power….
I should add music this and I can smell and taste fresh garden cucumbers and yellow flowering dill right now…
If you cannot read it when you are exhausted, and you can’t always find comfort, contentness, fulfillment, and relaxation or inspiration in it, it doesn’t mean anything. If words do not energize or relax you, they don’t mean anything and are not real; Words are alive and have the power of life and death – a false promise of life kills and that which instills life wards off death.
I should be able to read this exhausted like now, yet still full of energy and desiring drive, one of those days where it passes with still untapped potential and unburned energy by bedtime, unfulfilled and venomous…. I want to write and read this for intimacy, connection, contentness, and inspiration, yet cannot…
Why doesn’t this make me feel expressed and content and fulfilled, secured, relaxed, inspired like past and peers does… why can I not express and articulate myself as truly and wholly and fluidly here…
I want to implode now… to freeze and shatter where is the sun to incinerate me and Uranus to crystallize me…. the hottest caffeine and the coldest magnesium x and paralysis… death by excitation and death by relaxation… Exaltation.
Why do I feel the need or even want to write this right now… A garden is arranged according to the intention, and no fruit is born without purpose..
Ah, I long for the picnic tables under Osage Orange in spring and autumn alongside the riverside now…
Ah, spring and autumn, the seasons that mar change and circulation, the loss of good and wrought of bad, the anguished heart and intimate, yearning soul…
This is my sanctuary, I am free to do all I want here…
It comforts me and elates me for seconds, and then I wonder and feel nothing… why does it not feel as a sanctuary does or should, why does it not feel as the sound of the swaying tree branches in summer or windy lake waves or late night thunderstorms, let alone afternoon rainstorm naps…
Where are my inner fortress training grounds, my backyard fishing pond, my tea party gazebo, my library tower and study wing… where are my feelings and fantasies…
When you express from the heart, it is effortless, and always energizing… when it is from the heart, the heart always resonates with it… a metaphysical attraction and connection, where there is naught but the clarity of the soul; The words by resonating with the heart, always receive relaxation, inspiration, clarification, contentness, fulfillment, completeness, securement, and more.
Only effort takes energy, and if it does not take energy it recovers it…
Like sleep and dreaming and being held by angelic wings, if it resonates with the heart it takes no energy to read and receive and bleed with melancholy…
Resonance Is Recovery Of The Heart, and Sadness of The Soul… My Heart Bleeds and Aches and Yearns and longs For What…
Apex of Men 