The Forest

The Forest

A vast forest the color of chrome-blue due to the approaching storm and twilight. The coppery scent of rain and wilderness plays under your nose. The somber colored sky above droops like pouty lips all the way down to the tops of the oak trees. Some parts of the clouds are a darker gray than the rest, almost as if they had veins running around and through their puffy bodies. Overhead, deep brown and ruined green leaves are splattered on that platinum canvas, connected to the moist earth by muscular trunks, desperately reaching to the sky for something unknown. Countless of these bulky trees extend forever in every direction, as if you were gazing into the future oblivion no matter where you looked. Under foot the damp and fallen leaves shift with every step. Suddenly now, the rain. Soft in the beginning as lovers' lips, a falling mist from the burdened heavens. Then the drops condense, fall faster, more passionately. Pat pat pat is the sound the water makes on the lonely leaves. A confused and desperate wind can be heard weaving its millions of threads among the branches. It bumps and shoves and pushes the dark and wet leaves, causing the massive arms' spindly fingers to sway high above, mingle with the neighboring twigs, clash with the blots of dark brown-green. The rain comes heavier than before. Drops turn into drips, drips turn into thin streams. The rush of changing air comes as coldly as the betrayal that inspired it. The silver bullets impolitely begin their painful parade, powerfully stabbing into the archaic mulch and simply ricocheting off of the wooded generation. What little light survives now bends with the waving tree limbs and distorts the forest into a mirage of sorts...large, dark figures throw their whips with menace into the air and strike each other, producing that godawful howling whisper that tears at the ears and cheeks. All of their show is drizzled and bordered by very thin strings of moonlight, bouncing off of that forever-changing water that never seems to let go of anything. The wind and rain join forces to create the illusion of jagged icicles being shot into your skin and when they land there, the infection spreads. That cold, numbing, confusing sensation spreads from the arms to the fingers, legs to toes, face to teeth. It clouds your eyes, blurs reality. What should be a safe tree to shelter under now becomes a black gorge of danger. The ground betrays your feet. Mud sucks at your foot, never allows it the comfort of moving. A freezing paralysis overcomes the throat, the lungs, no breath enters or leaves. Finally the storms subside and a gap of hope seems to rush through the pause in rain, wind, and cold. But then the thunder falls like your heart set atop false dreams, and the lightning follows obediently, quickly on its heels. The light, then next the crash, stuffs the ears with intimidation, then the roar in the sky. Ice rain returns with strength. All sense is lost to the descending chaos. The heavens are screaming, the earth is cold and crying, and hell beckons with warm temptations. Should you fall? Blind faith alone is the only tool left for guidance amongst the rage of the forest, and blind faith alone leads only where one wishes. Joints turn to ice, the fingers in the trees crack and fall, movement is abandoned to the will of the wind. If only you could see, if only you could understand and find purpose, but sadly those luxuries don't exist in storms. This hollow forest littered with slimy trunks and leaf-roofs is now buckled in submission to fear and the lost order. You must join the forest to survive, must unhinge all hope and go with the chaos instead of out of it. If you don't, you fall. If you do, you fail. The icy, sharp pain comes from everywhere now.

You don't know how long the storm lasted, nor do you know where you are, all you can see is everything. Morning is blossoming, and that abundance of warmth and assurance you weren't used to is now pouring from the open sky, leaking transparent, golden columns that stretch from the forest floor all the way to the holes in the canopy from which they begin. Lively greens, yellows, hazels, and blues stand proudly where they've been painted. That cold knife, wielded by the unrelenting wind, is gone and replaced with honey. An aroma of heavy grass sprints childishly through the air. You can almost hear the giggles among the chirping bluejays and talkative leaves. This warm, steady, soothing light was the same light that tried so desperately to illuminate the darkness in the storm. It's the same wisdom that shows you the beauty before you, despite what shadows overcast it. Yes, the liquid paranoia remains, coating the trees and floor like sweat, but the forest grows from the stuff. The very same pain that hurt so much and helped so little is the essential ingredient in promise, in potential, in life. Remember the rain that hurt like curses. Remember the wind that rushed like fear. Remember as well the returning light, that came and made the woods so clear.

Reviews

[LeeCB]

I love how everything in this piece is personified. It's a living breathing thing, and it gives immediacy to the writing. Thought-provoking! I especially liked the imagery of "leaking transparent golden columns". This is a much more eloquent way to say "it's always darkest before the dawn."

[CookeCody]

Hey thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed