It’s hot. It’s one of those punishing heats that makes the simple act of lying down feel stifled. It’s hot and I’m in my garden bent low over fifteen square meters of carrots, mixing surface nutrients into the tender young roots. Despite the dry, blaring sun, down here it’s still moist and my bare feet love it. Welcome to the jungle(its a forest). Welcome to the forest. Welcome to the forest of sore backs and bubbling blisters; of sunny skies and creeping days. Welcome to the Garden of Paradise with a twist: reality. And what’s it all for? A couple dozen kilos of cabbage. A catch of carrots. A bushel or two of beans. Thats it.
Now I’m Jello™. I’m semi-translucent. I can’t feel my toes. I’ve been awake for 40 hours and moved over four thousand miles. I’m hanging on by a lab-made chicken soufflé and ginger ale. I don’t even know where I am.
I’m hugging and crying and regurgitated jello. I’m tired and loved and moving slow. I’m stretched and folded and… I’m home.
The monolithic towers supporting house after house dominate me. Diminish me. I feel small and short-term. I crane my neck and am lost. Going so fast in this tight metal box makes me shiver and strain; I remember my socks. The machine tugged cotton and polyester further restricts and I can’t not see all these perfect bricks. Making perfect lines on perfect grids. Straddled by perfect paths made by perfect lines. Perfect lines. Perfect lines. Lines. Lines. Lines.
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
“It’s too much.”
“These familiar roads.”