So green is the soul of the forest, beneath the wrapping of trees, that the scent of the morning does not penetrate. The air from the hills does not reach me in this cocoon of my own making. The hours roll over, falling in a heap at the back of my head. I try to count them, to pair them up, to pick out my position in the longitude of this exile, but they fizzle away. Daytime and night time are the same; the line between them blurs, goes in and out of focus.
I thought I had found my safe place, I thought here I would be bursting into a new world of light and life but the woods are not the considerate home they would have you believe. The forest pretends to be what it is not. I slip the last chocolate into my mouth. I am falling apart.
The copyright of this post belongs to Julia Correvon