The slender trunk of trees rise before me, but it is only an image.
Black, tall trunks, slim branches, thin leaves, but it is only an image.
Mist fills the gaps between the scores of black trunks, only white is seen in the distance. The woods could end just in a few yards, or keep going to the edge of the world, but it is only an image.
The pervasive smell of rotting, mist-wet leaves rise from the ground, filling my nose, my lungs, with the hint of long lives, long roots eating the earth, deep, deep under my feet, but it is not real, it is only an image.
A fell trunk lies, dead, in front. The moisture blackens it more, but it also makes it gleam. Among all the living, a dead, like a funeral. Like a promise of an end to the road. To each one's road. But it is only an image.
There is the slightest promise of birds, somewhere, anywhere. Short, far away calls to let them know I am there, to warn them not to go near me. To warn them to let me alone among the trees, alone in the woods. But it is not real, silence is real, this is only an image.
The mist moisten my skin, my clothes, taking away my warmth and presenting me shivers instead. I remain still, not a move, under the sight of all these trees, trying not to tremble, to stand the cold, the moisture slowly reaching my skin under my clothes, my flesh, my bones, my heart...
But it is not but an image. It is not real, it is only an illusion, an image. I am not lost.
I am not lost.