Everything is Perfect

I had a dream in my half-awake state while coasting with 70 strangers on a congested bus headed upcountry.

In this dream, my life had no chronology, no narrative – only mystical reflections on reality as I gazed pensively out the window of a moving vehicle at a world untainted by power of any kind.

Children laughed and ran through palm tree forests and soft grasses.  The sun was always just a few inches above the horizon, painting the sky.  Mid-tempo easy-listening Afro-beat tracks softly spoke to our ears.  We smelled all kinds of aromas marinading eternally over a charcoal fire.  Everyone was kind and had no reason not to be.

The earthscape was a continuous fruit-bearing garden, booming with color and teeming with life.  Labor was always optional, and vacant hammocks hung between every third pair of trees.  The homes were unroofed, as thieves could not exist by virtue of this planet’s design of abundance.  The only rain which ever found us was the kind which lovingly kissed our skin and our soil the way fresh-squeezed juice consoles the throat after a long journey.

Nobody called it paradise, nor heaven, nor any other place, for it was simply the reality in which we lived.

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