I saw something today, on the other side of the glass. It was beautiful, an indescribable myriad of colors. It is much too far away for me to reach, though I may still see it, at twilight when the glare has gone from the glass. I believe that it is a garden, I read of a garden once. The author spoke of it as the most beautiful object in the universe. He was a liar, for my garden is the most beautiful. It is my garden because I love it, because I want to be in it, among the plants and touch every stem and smell every flower. Only to dream of the sensations of such things is overwhelming, I have to look away sometimes for it is simply too beautiful. Other times I can only beat my fists against the glass and scream and cry because I love my garden so very dearly, and I fear I may never be inside of it; with the flowers, with the insects. The entire garden is gorgeous and full of life. The earth is rich and dark and beautiful, the seeds, the stalks, the flowers, they are all wonderful and unique and breathtaking. Everything within the garden is perfect, for the garden is perfect and is so because of all of the perfect things within.

            I watched the garden again today, through the glare. The glare was so painful to my eyes, but the garden was too magnificent to feel anything but love and awe. The garden is my obsession, my addiction, I crave my garden. I awake each morning to look upon my garden; I sleep every night to dream of her. The garden is my life. I need the garden; it is my breath, my beating heart, my soul. If I lose the garden I too will be lost, if the garden dies I too will die. I love my garden oh so dearly, with a love so great that it threatens to burst forth, past the confines of the glass, the confines of reality. My mind tells me that I should not love my garden, it tells me that I am a fool to love what I may never reach so deeply. It tells me that my garden is on the other side of the glass, of the prison; inaccessible, it tells me that the garden may as well not exist, for it is unattainable, that it may as well be on the moon. But my heart tells me that it is fine and wonderful to love the garden, because it is pure and perfect among such filth. It tells me that if anything should not exist it is I, not the garden, for a world without such splendor is incomplete, undesirable, and dark. If my mind persists in it’s cruelty then I will have to lose my mind, for I cannot stand to lose the garden.