There is a graveyard. It is a most beautiful place because the dead tend to it. Every tomb is a portal to a what-if, created by regrets, woven by orphaned dreams.
You have to see it through the seasons. You have to see it on its Day of the Dead which is the middle of February. I'll show you soon. For now I only have sketches of the original gravestones that lie at the heart of the place. They are the first. They are the seeds.
The dead are the lost of passed-away stories, waiting on the other side, although they are not certain what they are waiting for. They had forgotten. They had taken the bitter sweet cup from the Grim Reaper. They are strangers to me now, and I am a stranger to them. The dead are lost even to themselves because they broke my heart.
Choices have been made. I have not been chosen. Peace has to be laid to rest, one way or another, uneasy though it may be.
The Grim Reaper is as much a friend to me as a teacher. He is perhaps the only one who will choose me, one day, more out of duty than out of love.
STORIES are what happen in the Impossible Garden & the Wildforest. They are the overheard conversations, the gossip of the flowers and the trees, the fragments written on bones and stones. They are the secrets whispered by the wind, the tales of the stars, the knowledge earned or traded with the forest dwellers. They are the fairy tales that had been forgotten or never told. They are the rules and the history and how they are repeatedly broken and rewritten. They are the murmurings of magic, the language of hidden love, the wildness beneath every order and the pattern beneath every chaos. They are truths and they are lies and in the end they are real to those who have the heart to see.
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