This is where the magic happens;
solitude is of utmost integrity.

If I were a dew;
I would be the most travelled.
If I were the grass;
I would be the most still.

I am a hermit, unaware about my surroundings;
knowing all is interconnected within.

I am lost and in that I found myself;
I belong nowhere and in that I became of the universe.

It is happening once again
I am getting addicted to my drug
I thought I was finally over it
But bigger fractals keep reiterating it

It is happening once again
I am spiralling into depression
That source of an artist

Where is home, I searched it everywhere
In the rooms of my soul, at the corners of betrayals.

That inner child, that outer vile.
That immense hope, that long road.
That joyous fervour, that tenuous branch.
That life's river, that roof's rope.
All good. All over.

I talk to the plants, they say they are bored
I wonder why I am not them.

I feel jarred by the pollution, marred by the confusion;
so profound and superficial in human things.

If I were a soil perhaps?
Wait, I am. Which type, they say?

I tell them, I will become the soil that will grow them (plants) in all adversities
That I shall never be concrete

That as I return to being who I always were - a soil.
I will never betray plants - the sole ally in this world,
And perhaps also in the after?

But does that realm require soil to grow plants, I ruminate.

Plants tell me to have patience, to breathe;
One day when they turn trees, they will give elixir of wisdom.
In that promise, I lived for this realm as much as I wished to run to another.
But the trees make life more bearable, otherwise I would have long left.

No matter how bad the atrocities, nature never stopped giving to its exploiter;
We called it abuse, nature called it existence.
The tree is humble, it is growing in stillness, no matter what is inflicted.

They are the sole reason, hope exists on this side of the veil.
If the trees can endure humans, why cannot I?

Of course I can and with that thought another moment in time, in epochs, goes by.