There are dogs whistling outside of the Monastery Mountains.

Water crashing into rocks, like the wind yelling at the sun during winter— pushing it further and further away from reality— your reality.  

The baby’s hand clasps around the naked girl’s finger, as to say:

I appreciate you dearly. Now listen here kind soul, you are unkind to your soul. No room here for this kind of behavior.

See yourself as the bark of a tree.

Embrace the ridges,

The tales that come along with it.

The memory of the silent boy scraping his knee on the rocks with a smile on his face, bleeding out

Love—

For watermelons, and cows, and playful dogs.

Ladies with long hair, and baggy pants

Offering you hot wine on starry nights, and you think of, Van Gogh painting the moon and naming it after you.

For the love of tea, you think: “Calm mind, emptiness, fullness, stillness,”

Leaves basking in the sun.

“Oh, sweet tea,” You think. “Keep me here a little while longer.”

You see the boy and the girl growing fonder and fonder of eachother each day, and you think:

Zhivagho.

You find yourself here,

Sitting on the mountain,

Inhaling what nature has to offer— pureness, and you think”

Chris McCandless.

You think,

“Here, I can dream freely. I can dance amongst the flowers again. I can be myself again”    

--Celina V. F.