We have suffered, you and I. In the evenings whatever residual light remains snaps shut like an alligator's jaw; and in the morning, the sun lances down again like an arrogant scalpel. In between, though we held each other furtively, as if it were something criminal, the garden was still un-recognizable. How can that be? It was our former home.
Once again, I emphasize: We have suffered; although we tried
our best to be original, and from that tree
we ate only the most lustful of its products.
So why not be honest? We have sinned. As a result we've been punished. Very simple. Anticipated.
We shall never be graced, or graceful. Whatever. And we are trapped, it seems, not by our bodies, or our bodies' needs, but by tales and the myths we were fed while sleeping: ignominious deeds. Orphic things, like Titans eating their children. And to expurgate them should be considered our most significant requirement before minds' rivers can be forded.
So what do you think: Has this not been enough of "heaven's" torment? And even though this bodily imprisonment is not quite as bad as it's advertised, isn't it really about time we got on with the living?
All in all, however, I must say it was worth it: that other fruit mere promises: synthesized vitamins biochemical flummery, a mumbo jumbo of snake oil fakery.
But what we got left us gaping, gasping, gallivanting around a luscious strawberry universe in absolute delight, peopling galaxies with imaginary aliens.
Now we differentiate between subtleties, stand in awe of it all, like as if we are pre-adolescents watching meteors, our fruit's succulence dripping down our chins unnoticed. Return