Forest
By M. F. B. Porter
I don’t know what to think. I watch my feet step one after the other slowly, as if a picture show from a projector. Each step looks the same as the one before, and yet somehow completely different. I step on leaves, and then mud, grass and pine needles. I’m looking for someone.
Who is it? My bare feet have turned the color of the earth and look frozen. I can’t feel them. Perhaps they are not my own feet. Where am I going? Nothing looks familiar. I look up from my icy, dirty feet, to see the abandoned forest. I am alone, I feel it. The treetops seem vast and eternal. The leaves look as though they are sewn to the sky, in small, deliberate stitches. What is my place? I continue walking, my mind void of answers, and my heart a black hole, waiting for knowledge to rise and light the universe. Everything becomes darker. Who am I? Will I know if I keep walking? I’m not sure. I can just hope. But for now, I must be lost.
Who is it? My bare feet have turned the color of the earth and look frozen. I can’t feel them. Perhaps they are not my own feet. Where am I going? Nothing looks familiar. I look up from my icy, dirty feet, to see the abandoned forest. I am alone, I feel it. The treetops seem vast and eternal. The leaves look as though they are sewn to the sky, in small, deliberate stitches. What is my place? I continue walking, my mind void of answers, and my heart a black hole, waiting for knowledge to rise and light the universe. Everything becomes darker. Who am I? Will I know if I keep walking? I’m not sure. I can just hope. But for now, I must be lost.
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