It is an imaginary space. It is fiction. It is a garden. It is underwater. It is made of water and tastes like salt and sap. It is a hammock of native plants. It is hidden. It is humid. It is filled with unidentifiable sounds. Things flit and flutter. Things swish and splash. It is cool, now it is hot. It is sunny, and it is raining. Things grow too quickly, out-of-bounds. There is sand underfoot. There is soil in my hands. There is decaying bark. There may be blood. It is reclaimed space. There is definitely blood. The water rises. Everything is invasive. It is all in my head. It is unowned. It is carried in my body. It is tainted by politics. It is my body. This world is my body. My body carries my story. I imagine this place. I imagine my body. I tell myself. I tell my self. This is a place where I do not hate.
While I was painting this, I simply wanted to be free.