For the Dreamers

Crimson Wood

All too often, we draw ourselves back to the forest. The mysterious, dark, and hopeful atmosphere houses our most magical dreams... and our most haunting fears.

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Into the woods again, I fear. All its wonder and magesty draws me back, for I long for its freedoms and mystery to fill the vigorous desires I try to deny, but can never drain from the bottom of my heart. And so I let its streams and rivers drain the effort from me, and soak in instead the bright sunlight upon my eyelids, the furious breeze rustling every little hair on my outstretched arms, and the crisp smell of the sweet, juicy, crunching fruits of the season caressing my nose. This is the place where dreams are born and never leave.

But on the road of passion, there is an easy fork to Darkness; the wood, being the deepest reflection of the reverance of man, is in itself the vehicle. In it I drive blindly, recklessly, but not unaware - for I have seen the dreaded Darkness, and lived to tell the tale.

Once when I was ever younger in spirit than in mind, I went into the woods seeking in it my passion for the first time. In my company was a fine young lad, strong in all manners. He could have wrestled a bear twice his size to the ground with his hands! The Professors of Oxford would have lost to him in a battle of wits, and the boy would carry out the interaction with such politeness, any poor granny would have wept with pride. He was strong in all manners, you see, except in his wretched modesty.

As we walked together, lost in the vapor of our disintegrated dreams -- for the wood seems every morning to be clouded thick and misted with thoughts flushed from the inquiring mind the previous day -- we seemed, for a moment, to have emerged from the haze. But a shape looked to be emerging too, like a growing cyst upon the side of those entrancing dreams, capturing our attention entirely. It swirled and grew, solidifying into a pure white doe. Its coat was softer than the forest moss beneath our feet, and reflected brighter than the dew that soaked them in the early morning light. Its movements were slow but certain, fluid and graceful. Its beauty was pure indeed, but to my companion it was breathtaking and beguiling. I saw within his placid countenance his obsession taking hold, more radiant there than the creature it coddled. He loved it... and he envied it.

He stepped reverently forward, an unknown -- and yet all too familiar -- emotion clouding his perception of reason, of chivalry, of reality. It was not hatred, nor envy or greed, but rather a collection of them all, thinned like a vapor mist of feelings and dreams, longings for what could not be, running crimson in his veins and spilling out through the expression of his pale face and burning eyes. It drove him forward, step and step, and compelled his hand to his boot where the wretched image reflected sharp upon the blade. I remained planted, mind running ever faster than the plain, and though I stood too far frozen with fear, I lunged at him -- not in body but of mind -- and perhaps I caught him, for he turned beside me and slashed me with the blade. I fell upon the ground, the coat of moss rotted from below, soaking in the crimson passion of his madness that ran freely from his blade. But he fell too, knowing before vision that his target was in vain, and before he planted his own fatal blow, I saw reflected upon the weapon slick the deer twisted and deformed as his morning vapor mist, and together they dismembered, piece by piece, to a wholesome crimson mist.

Although never did they find me, I found in society's own placid countenance proof of Darkness, and so I stay, in and out again, watching so that even if Darkness is to masquerade as light, I shall name it, in time, Darkness all the same.