Heart of the Forest

You speak. I hear the words but they flow through me like mist through the trees. Like leaves falling I gain snippets of recognition, of realisation, of understanding. The answers are seen through dappled streams of light. I do not know which way to go. I can only see the ground and the canopy and the unmoving wall of problems surrounding me.

Can you hear the birds? The little voices in my head make comments to your words, but their chirps and calls only add to the orchestra. A twig snaps. Is that the conclusion? No. The leaves continue to rustle, continue to sway in the breeze, and one by one they fall.

I see your lips move, and I’m holding a half-hearted smile to your face in the hopes you think I’m listening. Your tone branches out, and each word reaches for something more, something nourishing. I cannot fill that need. I am not the light. I am not the darkness. I am me. And you cannot understand the depth of my yearning, of my solitude, until you stand in my forest.

You speak and I hear the words. They flow through me like mist through the trees. I watch as the meanings fall into place on top of other dead leaves. They too will soon rot. Their purpose is to feed you, not me. I can only see the unmoving walls of problems surrounding me, and you will never grow until you have stood in my forest.