Written in response to the Creative writing Ink, writing prompt competition, found here: http://www.creativewritingink.co.uk/resources/writing-prompts/
For August 3rd, 2017
I always liked the forest. Not because it brought you closer to the wildlife, or it was natural, fresh or bright. Nor for any apparent or reasonable idea and concept. I, myself just felt at one with it. Not in the superstitious way, where I find peace above the bracken, or for naturalness of it. It just makes sense, every nook and cranny, left to the wilderness and not touched by complicated animals, complicating things further to try and impress another. Everything here makes sense, unlike the people elsewhere. The trees, ever reaching climbing higher in a slow tiresome race higher and higher, sprouting out small green sprigs to catch just enough energy to go higher, before sprouting more. Lower sprigs shedding the green, discarding needles to the ground, that start to rot and feed the tree from itself. The sun and the way it dapples in the trees, for it works its way through the thicket on top, the thin but dense chaos of nature.
I feel like a tree, if I stand still for long enough, I feel my roots dig deeper, pushing through the ground down and down, while the sunlight dances on my leaves around my head. I feel connected to the trees, just as if the other rooted beings accept another, myself, to their forest.
A faint breeze, dawdling through the maze of towering buildings of bark, loosing itself in swirling somersaulting patterns, tickling the leaves everywhere. Spiders drawing patterns into the air, snagging onto the branches to advance their patterns.
I feel all this as I stand. I wish to join them as I stand, to get away from everything. I, but a small child, as they patronisingly call me not knowing the wisdom beyond my years that I gain from this place, wish to leave the plains of men. For a kinder life, I yearn to own, for I know, a utopia in the realm of men is impossible. I know that our nature destroys all that is good.
I feel enlightened, every time I am here, as though the sun kissed heavens raise me higher, just to a hover to look me in the eye and ask what I desire.
As I will reply to the sun; ‘to be with the forest, to belong with the trees, truly.’
‘Are you sure?’ Is the suns’ response, as though questioning this bizarre child’s request, ‘Truthfully, honestly?’
I nod in response, shy of the light’s beauty and radiance. She smiles, beaming down rays of tears, doubting herself, if she should do it.
Then in my dreams I become a tree, spiralling bark higher and higher lower and lower, seeing all and at peace, but the warmth turns cold as the men come, burning torches and bearing weapons of destruction, destroying the serenity of my place, my holy sanctuary.
Then, at the end of that I wake, and rush to the trees to check on the truth, the moon glowing with pity, of my nightmare. Shining what it can of the suns comfort. While the trees sway and swish oblivious to the cruelty of humans.
This is my sanctuary, no one can take it.