In the middle of the northeasternmost part of this uneven and full park is a fruitless fruit-bearing tree, the tree is inside a small pit surrounded by a short wall of stone bricks that looks like those towers from England, yet the bricks are identical to those of Troy's ruins; this wall must have protected the sapling, as it now serves almost no purpose to the tree. Around the tree—about 6ft away from it—stands 3 oak benches that look directly at the short wall, each bench points to one of the cardinal directions excluding the south. This whole area is surrounded by a ring of varying red and pink shades of gladioli and hollyhock flowerbeds, only opening at the north and south of the tree, one to the terrace above the waters and the other an exit from this part respectively. The southern pathway is in between two long rows of blended mauve and lilac-colored irises, guiding the path to other locations of the park. At the edge of the various vegetation surrounding this circular part of the park is a terrace on monochromatic ashlar flooring, with a ledge guided by limestone railings. Beyond the ledge ripripples a vast body of water. This great scenery offers a "moment" to those who stare at it; a place where the world is forgiving and timeless. Yet in contrast to the ever-serene view—as this part of the park is jutted away—a busy idiosyncratic road can be seen at the corner of your right eye. But for all the scenes I've witnessed, this was never a problem for those who experienced life itself while their body were pressed on these railings. The whole park is surrounded by walls of trees and bushes that seem impenetrable, these flora hide many things beneath and above them; examples are the snotgreen ponds that are as beautiful as Atlantis, the piercing—and sometimes deadly—light of the Sun, and a small yet life-giving river, which I've seen kids use for their paper boats (normally they do clusters of them, but there was this one special time where only one big boat swam). Speaking of kids, children run around and play here on their free time; there are good kids that play with what they have, naughty kids that take toys from others, and even those little ones who chose to play by themselves. Even if the children are gone, it always leaves me with a smile to see what they left behind. Yesterday I found a lost doll with its parasol, a wooden horse, sticks that looks like swords, and a tall stack of stones that are inevitably brought down by the forces of nature.
Those are great first descriptions of the park isn't it? They are nice paragraphs to start this... Diary(?), I never really thought of what this is, I only decided to pick it up due to a single reason in my mind, this park will soon be gone, and it's a shame for all the pleasure and clarity that this memory-filled landscape shared will wither without a trace. And so, here we are, someone with a personal familiarity with a park and a journal; writing everything that the landmark offers.
If you're wondering on how I know many things about this park, that's because I have been here in many mornings, afternoons, and evenings. I walk around the place because it gives me this feeling; it serves as a distraction to problems that never existed; Every breath feels like the green of the trees itself is the one that I'm inhaling.
Give me a favor, breathe, what does it feel like? Bland? Cold? Hot? Enclosed by walls? Either way, I'm sure that perception of yours will change once you imagine yourself in the middle of a garden, surrounded by the yellow green atmosphere, where many flowering bushes and towering trees lay by. Now breathe, take all of those transparent, refreshing and head-clearing air. Did you feel it? That's the feeling that makes my feet wandering.
By now, I'm sure you can tell, I am extremely far away from being monoideatic, I've been like this for as long as I was who I am. My thoughts, words, mouth, and hands are often in harmony. My head is clear yet it's also full. I'm happy for what I was, am, and will be. I often make myself see things for what they are and not by what they appear to be; I see myself as someone that observes everything; Nothing more but a humble listener.
But moving forward, less about me and more about the place. The highlight of this corner of the park is none other than the tree itself, which—for all I know—has been here since the park opened. Yet after all the time I've spent in this place, I never saw it bloom or fruit. I often sit at the northern bench and stare at it; after all, I can't really go to the tree as the wall stands between us, it feels sacred, and to touch it is a sin. There is so much more to say about it—the tree is such a great poem. After the admiration, I left the seat—and if you do too, going behind the grass, bushes and trees, to the waterward terrace, you will always see someone with their elbows pressed on the railings of the terrace. Days may pass, people may change, but there will always be someone there; if there's no one, I'm sure you'll find your own elbows touching its drink rails, staring into the orange sun fighting the blue fleet of the sky beneath the thin yet long boats of anglers.
Personally, this place doesn't have a single bit of flaw or any of its synonyms, everything is as tough as that hulking Achaean with a shield (it survived many obstacles from nature itself), it's so captivating that you can't help yourself but always seek for it, and it has this sense of being silver tongued or like a wise old man, inspiring and giving you advices yet without spilling a single word.
I will end this day looking forward for what other stories this park will unfold; what other books it will write; and what poems it will tell.
