The Lagoon
Finally, Tomek found a place to descend to the lagoon. A small, winding path down the side. Meandering through the heather down to the shore below, along the lagoon. The other ridge, the other peninsula, the other leg of the isle, was at a greater distance now, for the estuary was wide here, close to where it spilled out to sea.
Tomek turned and moved inwards along the shore, now travelling northwards, in the forbidden valley. Eventually encountering the thick jungles. Like the first explorers in the Amazon, his machete in hand, he hacked his way slowly through the virgin jungles.
Wading often in the water, moving as he did upstream. And like the early explorers of the Amazon River, his goal was 'the source'. The mother of waters. Where was it? How far? How far must he track and hack, to get to the gold, that he knew intuitively, must be there…?
Deep, Deep Jungle....
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In the jungles of woman.
Tropical trees, with flowers like purple rain.
A flower is a plant's orgasm.
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Though he'd never been here, or anywhere like it, he felt for the first time that he was truly home.
Humankind, after all, was born in the tropics. The jungle is our collective birth lieu. Our home of homes. So even those born and raised in the city, or the desert, or the lands of the big snow, find themselves charmed and suddenly 'home' on their first visit to a glade with vines thick as a man, blossoms big as a woman.
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The jungle, swamp air is warm, rich, humid, fecund. Full and heavy with every type of smell. Sweet, floral blossoms in abundance. Fetid, swamp water and musky peat moss dumps, buzzing with dragonflies.
Skunk cabbage, their shoots emerging from the swamp waters, full of funky, fetid smelliness. Honey, from the myriad beehives in the crotches of big, stately trees. Ripe fruit, hanging from the trees and dropping. Young does, the deer in heat, grazing in the glade, musk clouds puffing out behind them. A 1,000 insects everywhere. Birds chirping in the trees, dropping their morning droppings, white cream seminal drops, into the soup of life which was the bubbling swamp below.
The smell of decaying, dying flesh, out on the trail. Alligator eyes, rising from the quicksand, in search of new young life, to scoop into its jaws. Mud oozing with worms, and the smells of prehistoric swamp-era smells, just now released. New, fresh, green vegetation shoots, and the crackling of old, old, ancient wisdom trees.
All these rich, full, heady, funky smells of life filled him with a sense of exuberance for life itself. A warming, pleasant feeling permeated his body, giving a joyful bounce to his step. He'd stop often and lean against a tree, eyes closed, to just breathe deeply the liveliness of the air.
Yes, magic was in the air. Intoxicating, like an opium flower. Like he was in love. Died and gone to paradise; never shall return. He'll just stand still and breathe...
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There were bird's nests of all sizes in every branch of every tree, full of eggs. As if this little patch of jungle was one big bird's nest, where all the birds of the world came to lay their eggs. The ultimate breeding ground.
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All the world is a jungle of females opening themselves up, luring men in with their powerful, irresistible smells and beauty, all waiting for manseed.
A flower is a plant's orgasm.
~
It's a mad profusion of life. The sultry, sensual air, dripping with scent, so fruity-floral-like, fecund as can be. Air so 'alive', you can sense the 'presence' of life growing around you, in its very vibrating, spirit hum.
The jungle is a woman, and he could lie down in the swamps and close his eyes and feel its humming plant-like-contractions of orgasm all around him, and sink into it....
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