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Bluelighter
I have a special place, for it resides in the abyss of my memory. When I wake form the clattering of antlers on a hot July morning, I feel a bit festive. Stretching my arms and peering out over the cliffs makes me seem small and insignificant. Yet the view gives me strength. The breeze gives me peace and the sun shares its religion. Animals congregate in denial of human presence. There is a weeping willow behind me singing its grief to the four winds. To the right, the stench of a tobacco field drifts my way. And to the west, cattle graze leaving wild mushrooms to grow. Tulips and lilies spring up beneath my feet while locusts jump to miss my near fatal steps. I listen to these unfamiliar sounds and feel grateful. Hundreds of miles seclude me from taxi cabs and rush hour traffic. Every single blade of grass is planted in my head. All the bugs and plants are there along with every stone and cloud. This live painting will survive through pollution of my brain. I can only try to explain the intensity of this magical place. The imagination is completely up to you. Now the soil is too dry to produce flowers. Man has killed this special place with his machines. But it will forever live on inside the mountains of my mind as it blooms and grows prosperously.
