Other paths have a path to follow, other’s have shadows they can track against the constant movement of time. I do not.

I run through the forest in pursuit of ideas. I bang my knees and scrape my toes and might leave a trail of blood behind me but I cannot afford to look behind me, I might lose my way. I question my decisions, second-guess and third-guess every step until I am too scared to move. I do not seek salvation, salvation at least has a white flag I might wave in supplication. I seek communion, that thinning of my skin where “I” does not matter so much. It hurts too much to be “I”, to inhabit this mind and this skin.

I call myself many titles and many names, as if I might find a way to white-wash my pulse behind the walls, but it is always myself I find in the dark corners. I can pray and do and do and pray and each evening I kneel down, heavy, beneath the same doubts that plagued me the night before. I crave silence but even that is elusive, masked by the noises of the insects outside my window.

Even behind the Divine I have glimpsed there is a Divine I cannot begin to know, like a scent carried on the winds. It brings with it the scent of deep earth and caves and shadows and ancient memories that play across my skin and make me want to cry.

Forgive me if i am skittish and cannot focus on the topic at hand.

I can hear the forest’s calling my name.

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