suppose you are walking through a forest. a place for the searchers. leaves hang low and the fog is all around you. only so much can be seen at once. listen! your ears will catch it in this place, for there is much your eyes will never know. each thing moves and breathes as you do, can you feel it? there is breath's life in this place. the path you've been following is not a path, and it disappears, leaving you to your own, alone. but you are never alone in this place.
the toad that sees you felt you in the earth before you came. you're being has been whispered by the trees and danced about by squirrels. there was one or two or many who came before you. you are probably not the last. it doesn't matter, and it does for you are celebrated here. the stones prate your whereabouts. loneliness isn't.
walking as you've walked before. walking as you'll walk again. walking now, running then. breathless to a stop instead. oh what useless, oh what tripe. oh what dawns and diatribes. oh the inevitable wondrousness of solitude inside ones own- the searching for another.
let your skin tell the tale of what's within and what's without. this place will make you as you walk and make this place in sense. we've tried, oh god, we've tried the branches yawn and whisper to your ear. we've lived, oh god, we've lived and died the leaves they lilt on by your side. the dirt and there those worms that work; you've now been made and joined in by the chorus of a thousand things. this forest and the things inside it: they are your yous. this forest is the things inside it. you are your yous. say to yourself, "i am." say to yourself, "i was and will be." for now, in this, the forest makes its symphonic bleating.
a word: written in the dirt as though to be churned away by the slightest- be not weakened by your own inequity; be not wakened by your inspiration. this place will have your soul from now until you rest.
