There is a subtle stoicism in nature.
Life simply exists out there
Sometimes I imagine what it would be like
to die out there,
Nothing cares for your existence out there,
not the trees,
or the wind,
or the creeks.
You die, just like any other animal out there,
and life simply goes on.
Nothing out there will mourn you
or even remember you and,
if enough time should pass,
no one who once cared would ever find
what is left of you.
Your disappearance would be the greatest mystery
and the wilds.
Your depression does not make you any less worthy. Not of happiness, not of contentment, and not of love. I beg of you to hold on to hope; hope that, in the end, the sun will shine upon you even brighter than before, that flowers bloom even fuller and that you deserve, above all else, peace.
There is a place I go in my dreams.
Emerald grass dances in the wind
and tall, skinny pines lay tucked for miles
among the loam.
I am uneasy in this place,
as if I am an intruder
and whatever lies among the trees
knows I am here.
Still I walk,
from one point to the next
feeling that even though I am moving,
I am standing in place.
The air is stale despite the cool wind.
What is it that keeps pushing me forward
and what is it
that begs me to stay put?