There is something so peaceful about the woods, and the aimless wonderings of a dreamer. Even if I can’t escape the urban juggled around me, I know the woods are always waiting for me.
There is magic in wandering, it is as if the feet and the earth give the mind permission to wander too. Thoughts and feeling once left abandoned coming running to the surface demanding to be held and some simply ask for permission to fade. It is in these moment I found solace, discover new fascists of the world around me, a few hidden treasures and sometime I allow myself to reemerge into a world where old lovers collide, and children who never exist live.
Sometime I tell their stories hidden in the pages of countless journals, and scribbled hastily on random sheet a paper. It’s funny; you’d think I’d have become a writer with all these scribbles. But I can only ever find the beginning or the end. I am never privy to both and so I am surround by scattered fragment of unfinished stories.
Call me silly but there something about the way the earth feels beneath my bare feet and the warmth of the sun dancing off my pale skin that make me long for those endless days of wandering beneath the trees and losing myself to stories in my head.