THE GARDEN OF HALOGENS.

        The Garden of Halogens, originally just “paradise”, was the first, last, or only providence of identity that contained elements of all three familiar states of gender at standard temperature and pressure.  This diversity allowed a maximization, in terms of function and emotion, of what may be done in the landscape.  While it often provided a safe haven for self-transformation, the location and purpose of the Garden was highly reactive, occasionally widespread, and also itinerant (multi-continental).
        The term Halogen (“salt and sea” / "come to be”) was initially used to imply the fluidity of the states of gender, as well as a representation of identity as a process of self-generation, “stretching current”, or salient waveform.  This was in contradiction to traditional interpretations of gender as a solid or concrete habitat.  On certain continents, the phrase was further meant to allude to the cleansing or disinfecting properties of the Garden, and the significance of its curative nature.  The ambiguity of the phrase permitted it to be adjusted according to periodic concerns and proposal of impact.
        It was widely accepted that all halogens formed characteristics of masculinity and femininity when bonded to a social structure, and most were produced from the embodiment of sea water, salt and minerals (including the ivory, bones, teeth, blood, eggs, skin, and hair of organisms).  Due to their complex compositional nature, the middle halogens, were often prepared for their curative or medicinal purposes.  Generally these identities were part of the pre-existing continental habitat, but within the Garden, their specific elemental requirements were managed in a way that was enhanced rather than damaged by the process of companion planting.
With regards to depth of continent and perceived security of inhabitants, the Garden may have grown quickly or could have been created over time, area by area.   On multiple occasions, it existed for ornamental purposes, or was revealed by the intermixing and cross-pollination of aspects of all three states of gender (with concern for their protective layers, active textures, and chosen contradictions).   Though the curative properties of the Garden of Halogens were commonly overlooked by dominant continental hierarchies, their appearance and effects could be restored through the work of extensive coping mechanisms (including “the wildfire method”), cropping techniques, and careful observation.  This cultivation was typically undertaken by one who had seen their whole self in the Garden, a state of salt water, shivering as soon as it started to still.  Their view of paradise was often elementary: an undertow of pulse and skin, torn from everywhere and then grown back together again. It felt far past a probable cause, like a pillar of salt was the only thing left protecting us. Jillison said not to give any ground and I agreed for once.
        I told them to try, try and rearrange me. Ignore the obvious elements, the original skin, the birth site, the scar tissue. Loosen the skeleton out. Use whatever topsoil or subterranea you have, save just what you need.         What else was left to ask for? Jillison said it took an hour either way.         My hands and face were barely showing, we kept coming back to the same instant. Not as point or location, not as a landscape of anatomy or contradiction of skin. There wasn’t any true purpose to it.         That was one way to understand paradise. Trapped together in temporary veins, I didn’t need a checklist of chemical compounds to know.         Every afterlife had to end somewhere, that's what Jillison kept reminding me. There would be a melting point, a boiling point. Her plan wasn't without flaws or pain, but prisoners have their limits too.          What if there was holy water in a harvest of salt? It was no mistake our wounds were wide, even if they tore apart the entirety of our terrain. None of those continents ever belonged to us. Not actually. I wouldn’t miss them when they was gone.
        I was calm, I crossed off that decision forever ago. Or the answer is obvious, you can’t change the way you’re made.         Eos, Hestia, Themis, Eris, Amphitrite, Cybele, Nyx. Seven total and soon they would know the undertow that sunk through them all.         Call it a hollow hour, I chose it as our one to last. Didn’t matter if we never got there, never mind the blood on the door. We didn’t have to back away from an opening anymore.         Jillison spread salt over my skin like stars against a windshield. She asked me if I remembered what reactions can and can’t be outlived? I said we had hidden our survival too long now, outgrew the ghosts of two men already. What were the consequences then?
        A hole underground, a full disinfectant filled to the top. They would go and take their early looks, make whatever initial judgements they could.         Jillison told me to patient, she said there was another side to the violence to come. She was developing a solvent to strip away surface layers, to show them exactly where we hid. A soft, silvery, metallic liquid. A solution.         So I waited there. Under the soil of the transfinite rift, searching a skylight for arms and shoulders and knees and legs. Any walls of a body to unbuild, any opposite path for a breath to hold back.
 Blacked myself out for ten years? Buried it for twelve? I slept while Jillison planted seeds and cures, reached through the cracks in scar tissue and clay. Only an hour passed, in halogen time. It still didn’t feel like less.         Did they think I would just waste away? A decade later and I was waking up on my own. Jillison said it was true.  She fought for our grave until it grew into a garden above.
If they ever asked, I called it a home to begin. I told them there wasn't any difference, what had dissolved was only flesh and blood, not the bond or belief within.