|
|||||||
|
|
FOUNTAIN OF THE PRIMORDIAL GARDEN (03/14/2023) back "I don't understand. Are you saying I'm hallucinating?" "You believe you see me, and nothing more." The soft bubbling of rolling water prickled in his ears, and he turned to face the noise. It was a small fountain, held by a base of dark, dampened stone, with rippling, pearlescent water carefully contained by dull marble, forming rings of movement around the simple, flower-like sculpture sitting in the center. He approached the fountain slowly, eyes fixed on the stone flower, his vision running along every flicker of light and pulse of kinetic energy that inhabited the liquid. He stared quietly for some time at it, before speaking. "And what about you?" He said. "All of this is happening, and here you are. Can you explain this?" Motionless beyond the curling, wavering water, the fountain did answer, the resonance of its soundless voice emanating through his head. "There are many things I can't tell you," said the fountain. "I admire your curiosity, but I cannot tell you why I'm here." The Muse breathed in frustration, breath tense on his diaphragm. "Why can't you tell me? You can't even tell me why you're keeping this all a secret. What even are you?" "I am it," replied the fountain. "I am it, and you are it too." The Muse furrowed his brow, annoyed. It became evident to him that he wasn't going to get a straight or satisfying answer out of the cryptic sculpture, or any of its other incarnations. He turned away and crossed his arms, instead looking over his surroundings, paying more mind to the lush greenery and flowers of the surreal garden. Butterflies that had wings like watercolor paintings and stained glass rested on the full, brightly-colored blood oranges growing from the trees, making their home among the sunlight-illuminated green-gold of the glistening leaves. He walked away from the fountain, finding a fallen marble pillar on the ground, taking a seat with a fed-up slump, chin in his hand, elbow propped up on his knee. He kept his eyes fixed on the fountain, indignant. He parted his lips to speak again. "And why do you keep bringing me here?" He asked. "Do you not like it here?" The fountain asked. "No, I-" The Muse stumbled over his words. "I do like it here. I'd rather be here than out there. Where is this, exactly? It was pitch-black out there, how is there always daylight here?" "There is a sundial not far from here, bronze and stone. If you choose to move it, you may bring out the moon and stars." That did sound nice, but he was enjoying the sunshine, and how it made the oranges smell sweet, and how the birds chirped, and how the butterflies gathered. "You didn't answer my first question," He returned, a wry smile on his face. "You are wherever you would like to be." The Muse couldn't find a response to that. He shut his eyes and listened to the birds, the rustling leaves, the rippling water. The sunlight warmed his skin and hair and the sweet air filled his lungs and lifted the tension out of his body, as though it were exorcising a specter from him. The breeze caressed his arms and lulled him into a half-sleep, not noticing the butterflies now settling on his hair and shoulders. What did it mean to dream within a dream? "And what are you dreaming of, Muse?" He dreamed he was sitting on a marble pillar in a secluded, surreal garden, full of exotic birds and butterflies, in the sunshine, resting peacefully. For one moment, at least, nothing would bother him, nothing could bother him, and nothing bothered him at all.  |
||||||
