The walls will be of earth. Heavy and dark. The smell of life and secrets. Roots of the big big tree will stick out, tickling me sometimes. I like the symmetry of this world. How there is a whole tree above the ground growing taller, stronger, stretching to receive the Sun, hug the light, take it all with its brunches. Containing pigment that will translate into color on the waking of the world come the spring time. And how that color will slowly fade until it reached copper red only to turn into golden. That is the end, it achieved all the purpose for the birds, for the lovers and girls and boys who'd come to engrave their name, leave a mark of their existence too in its bole, then it will just fall down. So graciously, elegantly, quietly, visible to only those who slow down, pay attention, listen. I even wouldn't know in that whole of mine.
And there is a whole tree underneath the land that we find it so unforgiving to our knees and too hard for our feet. A whole inter-veined web of a structure built to support life and take only what it needs from the earth that is borrowed from our children.Internal, hidden parts giving life and beauty to the external. I also like how our bodies look almost perfect in their symmetry. Left is the same to the right, skin deep. But no two lungs are the same, there is no heart on the other side while underneath it is just a mess of systems. We forget about that, like we forget to look at the moon, and the face of our spouse because we are too preoccupied.
I like roots too. Of the tree, of the family, of a home, of a history of two life partners. When you start building something from scratch, an apple pie, or our dream house, its when the memories begin and life continues in the forward direction. Those same memories will look something like the under-tree. Hidden, colorless and that strong. They'll have to kill you to take that away from you, rip your heart out.
I'd go into that hole of mine where there is no Time, nothing ages- Sun would not have that affect on it. There are no paradox of choices. There is where will I go to write without windows and outside wonders and pains, and Facebooks and mobile phones to distract me. Where I'll just go to think about symmetry, roots, atoms, institutions of our relationships, all the things we take for granted, of all those that are long gone before we came to be here, all the gallons of mothers' milk,all the novels that contain the wisdom of those precious moments our lives are made of. How explanatory they are in their words across tree pages, staying there forever now from the moment they were scribbled. Yes we all have them moments but those who do not stop to listen to their body, read them from those books, they cannot recognize them. It is the same when you cannot see something even if you are looking at it, because you do not know the word for it.
In that hole, I'll know all the words. I'd call myself Alice but I won't drink the potion, I would not want to go further down than this. This peace.
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