I come to the garden alone because I am afraid to bring others, lest they step on all my hard work of lying to myself.
I had a dream last night, where leaves of truth defied my rake and cluttered and smothered my ill gotten peace-of-mind.
Kronos thundered his hatred down from the hills and came stumbling, sick and tired, to devour me and trample the prosperity that offended him.
It is a sham. It is a lie. It is an adulterous marriage, this garden where I go to escape the truth and pretend everything is OK, and impress my neighbors.
I lay the mulch of my defeats down to keep out the weeds and keep the water in and feed the angry flowers.
I tell the flowers to shush. It’s too much, all their complaining, and I just want to take a soma and forget.
Epiphany 