secret

there is a place so secret that no camera can photograph it, and so well-hidden that even if i was to tell you exactly where it is and how to get there, you wouldn't find it. it lies deep in the woods, beyond where the bears and the wolfs roam, beyond where the witches of old set their traps. the only way to get there is on the back of a magical bicycle. the only way out is on foot, one slow and steady step at a time, with your heart in one hand, and your wisdom in the other.

it lies at the bottom of a sun-drenched copse, just on the edge of the little lake. there are reeds there that whisper stories in the breeze, while baby ducks play hide-and-seek among their roots. there is clover in the grass, and swallows in the sky, and the scent all ponds have in summer, green, moist, rich and slippery. there are pockets of happiness, just waiting to burst open at the slightest touch. and a little grey mole, dead in the grass, one paw over his eyes. there are also now a few hairs off my head, the left-overs of a fennel bulb, and a small piece of my heart, which got caught on something, and broke off.

the unbearable joy of having found that place. the unbearable sadness of knowing i will never find it again.