Scent of Roses or Version 2

The first thing I notice is the checkered floor. It looks like those black and white marble floors at Masonic lodges or modernist houses. Only it’s not flat, the whole place warps towards a deep depression on one side. I immediately feel the irresistible pull, the great force attracting me, and every one else, towards this black monolith of incredible density standing in the middle of the depression. It’s not human, but there is an intelligence there. Instinctively, I know it has crashed, uninvited. Not belonging here it warps space-time fabric and immediately starts sucking pure, innocent energy from the people of the garden that was here before them. They force it out of them by clothing them in dread. A new world is created. Two dragons appear, one white, one black, mirroring the floor, and start circling each other at the bottom of the ocean and high up in the sky. And so it is. For millennia.

I think of our garden trampled under the marble floor and of our heroes that are getting old and are dying and that have made this possible, NOW. I make the incredible effort to remember that I am a beginning and end within myself. I say my name. I take off the garment they gave me, drop it to the floor and walk the path around the pond, picking flowers and making wishes, while they look at me grinding their teeth and stroking white cats. My job is to regally walk so the stars will connect with the earth on my back, rainbow energy like a healing blanket and the blood of the dragons penetrating each other birthing the rose that I carry, so young men wake up excited and old men can die in peace. The goddess in me eats the density that was the bread of your days and exhales the scent of roses.

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