In the forest, the stories that are told have no beginning, middle or end. There is no narrative and it is for this reason that humanity has lost touch with it. Its life is cyclical and essentially infinite. Ours is marked by birthdays, holidays and commemorations and is, therefore, finite.
I want to crawl out into to the forest and melt into the soil so that I can live upon a branch of a tree. That is what I want to be when I grow up.
At times, I am the drowning man, surrounded by thought. Other times, I am the parched man, stuck in a sea of sand deafened by the roar of desolation. It was for this reason, that this oasis speaking the language of spring mountain water was such a pleasant find.