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(Page 1 of 3) garden of desire by Simon Gibson
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Garden of Desire.
Within the garden of desire lay a man. "A god in the garden?" they thought, and then he breathed.
Within the man lay the key to all things. He knew this, he was the god, it was instinctive, and so with his instinctive feeling and knowledge in his mind he walked out into some things that one can just not explain in words, however hard you try, but still the god walked. The twitching of their muscles was a fearsome sight, the rocks grating on the teeth of those who, had they been there, would have witnessed the spectacle.
His mind forced the real world to bend to his will. All which lay before him morphed into that which his mind's eye desired. All that he saw turned to grey and formed again into colourful statues that caressed him lovingly as he walked through his garden of depravity. The path undulating beneath his feet to reveal a lake of smooth white skin which formed into footsteps before him to cushion his feet in their ebony smoothness and exquisite caress. The whispering voices of his minions spoke to his higher self, that which should not have been, that which he should not have become.
In the man's mind he feared the end of the path, the thorns scraping his feet, his hands scorched by streams of liquid gold, the wealth he craves will be his rejection, one who is malformed, as we all know, will be malformed for eternity, your fault man, you brought it upon yourself, this is the comment from his mind, it knows the real state of the ark but cannot open the doors to reveal what truly will be saved.
The man is now in the embrace of a statue that feeds him its soul from androgynous growths on its arms, it forms cups of pure light that the man is dammed to drink and forget, constantly, until the hell-blessed figurine wills him to stop. His ecstasy is incredible, his decision is absolute law in this realm of damnation, the hell of pleasure, and the light bathes him in a glow that is beyond the real.
There, in his soul, is the key to all things of this place, within him the answers for everything reside. The darkness of this makes him light in the eyes of all but himself. His perpetual shadow of his own image nothing to him but the darkness that is his mind.
In this twilight world that he inhabits in his own world he waits for the sun to set, the darkness now filling the eye of this godlike imagination with life. People in the ground below him awake, their lives of servitude below the rock to start again, as they were yesterday, without change, and how they will be tomorrow, just the same. He has forced them to suffer, his want and lust make a thousand cry in bondage, they bleed with delight at his torture and spittle, which bathes their sweat covered hides with love.
In the way that one would make the world his own by dreaming he made his own world from ours. The substance of his home becoming that to which the garden had already succumbed, it had become the gate to hell, the ultimate path to oblivion. Within the dream, in that mind, lay the key to all things, and in that mind lay the damnation of the world, but what world?
Inside the world of the mind is one key which, no matter how many doors, there is no lock for, inside the lock, whatever shape you choose for the door, is a system of chaos which would defy order to become lawless reality, the twisting of the breeze around tree stumps, the sea breaking its waves across the sky in blood red hues.
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