The tree of life was considered as two different trees. One the tree of good and evil, and the other, the tree of life. This was symbolic for the two hemispheres of the brain, and how the consciousness spread through it, to make life. The soul’s center was within the pineal gland, This created male and female. It was the emotional side that causes reacting, without logical thought, that made sin.
Bruce steepled his fingers pensively, watching Jason from inside his warm study. Last night had seen a record snowfall in Gotham, making patrol difficult for Bruce, but even he had to admit that it made Wayne Manor look very festive, especially with Christmas coming up.
The boy had his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his nose tucked into the thick, red scarf that Alfred had insisted he wear on his wintery walk.
Lest you catch the cold, Master Jason.
The butler had apprehended him sneaking off after dinner with only a light jacket, which had greatly upset the former and caused him to fuss over the boy for a good few minutes, finally managing to pull an warmer jacket over his shoulders and wrap the scarf around his neck before Jason had stormed out muttering about how hewasn’t a baby, and could look after himself.
As he trudged slowly back up to the manor, he kicked at the powdery snow distractedly, glaring up at the place he was now meant to call home. The door slammed behind him, causing icicles to fall from their roosts and shatter on the front porch, breaking the still quiet in defiance.
Tell me, Adam, what would you do if you were alone? Would you take off your stolen clothes? Would you take off your stolen skin?
Our footprints follow obediently behind us, but they do not lead us home. You stand in our empty garden, eyes closed, up to your scraped knees in dust and dirt and empty seed packets, and I call out to you, but you don’t know who I’m screaming for. We keep finding ourselves like this, perpetually naming things. Unsatisfied with words, now that we need them.
Our mouths were not shaped for this.
I am coming to terms with being a trespasser in my body. I am coming to terms with the fact that Eden can’t be seen on a map, that red clay earth runs through our veins, that we are battered and stained by our own homesickness.
I know that my mind is a stranger, that I was built from fertile soil, and I know that although we keep our eyes always over our shoulders, the last holy curse is that someday we will stop trying to come home.
You say you like it better this way, where we try to weigh each other’s shadows, where we count our ribs and come up one short. Never mind the future graves on the roadside, never mind the flies that land on our parted lips, one of us is going to give birth in this ditch, Adam, and it will not be me.
Let me plant a seed in your abdomen. We’ll swap curses, Adam, and this time it won’t hurt - I’ll toil in the barren fields and you will curl protectively around the life in your belly, fingers splayed over the warm swell of your abdomen. Our work will be easy. You’ll give me two sons, five sons, ten,
and I will grow a tomato patch on the windowsill, and everything I touch will be green.