From the Blanket of Leaves You Die

Image by Paul Turgeon via Flickr

But what I want to say, however, I'm not going to say it because I don't have to say it--you know it--if you can still remember it, but I'm not sure that you're still there. THERE. Seems that you're lost without a trail of breadcrumbs to get back to your Path and the forest is dark, strange sounding and ominous... what's that strange, bad feeling you have, that crawling of the skin? A hand in front of your face: his? hers? mine? yours? We all know, but you can't tell. It's the hand that holds you down. A cry emanates from the darkness, yet you can't determine the direction from which it came, yet you pray for it to happen again because it sounds familiar--too familiar. And then, the thing you least wanted to hear... a million cries at once flooding your senses until you collapse, curled into a fetal ball, begging for the Leaves to bury you. There will be no evolution for your soul from There. You have to figure out how to get HERE.

(PURGE COMPLETE -- now I can write at work).