Oasis; existance in nothingness, is our own chronicle. A Tally stick of prosaic days we spent longing for a green tint of a bud and then another one and one more afterwards; and the agony of a spontaneous generation as the phenomenon of "growth" bringing about an unfamiliar weight of roots, stalks and leaves and all in a barren soil which dictates hostility and deprivation to its very grains.
This is a feature of every wasteland and "being a wasteland" is a feature of each and every adamant herbage's origin; one by one green dots of life strifing the desert's crimson and Oasis, our home is the coincidence point of three primary colors and us in between, the most vital one.
But what differentiates between Oasis' picture and one from depletion of selfish wildflowers is our roots. Somewhere in the depths of the ground, afloat in a saturated black silence, is our hands reaching out for each other's; as in a model of Michaelangelo's "The creation of Adam", but surreptitious, acquiring a common sense which whispers the conspiracy of water and food impoverishment in the roots' knots –as ears-. We TALK to each other; TALKing about ourselves; our chronicle; our Oasis and the expectacular settlement we built uphill.
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