I could hear my footsteps, slow but steady. The leaves lay cold yet rough, crackling down beneath. My breath, getting heavier and heavier. I can feel the weight of my burdens on my shoulders. Every time I blink, the dire memories haunt me. Then I remember to take a breath, I will not let them get the best of me. My lungs fill and then deflate. They fill with fire, exhale the desire to forget the memories. I know it's dire, to make use of my time today. I keep walking, stumbling rather, hoping my feet will take me somewhere that can give me a single shred of hope, somewhere that can restore my will to live and not six feet underground.
Everywhere I look I see nothing but trees, all laughing at me with their mocking tones. The mahogany bark, dark and miserable. The years of isolation evident in the bark. If trees could tell stories, what would they say? Could we discover untold truths buried in the past? Could we find the meaning of life? Could we learn about myths that are actually truths? Bigfoot, trolls, unicorns, fairies, could they have co-existed with us all along? Could they prove the existence of God and the prophets? Or, would they crush our hopes like everything else in our lives and tell us of their lonely isolation.
The feeling of my skin embracing the warm sunbeams is the only comfort I can grasp on to. I sigh in relief. I look up, trying to look for something, anything, any sign of hope for the future. Yet, all I can see is the vessel of an empty sky. The relief has faded in less than a second. That's the longest relief I've felt in a very long time. I can feel the blood dripping slow, but steady down my shaking hand.
You are obviously wondering, what happened to me? What has cut me so deep to the point where every moment I breathe, a new wound forms? This is my story...
