They say the old stone house in the forest is haunted, but I am not afraid. I sought the highest floor before my people arrived. I ran the woods above and below. I danced in the stream, I turned up mud, left it about the floors, and then I marked the corner of the staircase. I will do it again, for I am not afraid. I stay ahead on the trail, and check for others. I will be there first, and sprint there with heavy feet, for I am not afraid.  My legs are strong, and my feet dig through the mud. My people call me back to them, but they should not worry, for I am not afraid. These woods are mine.

We stepped out of the cold and pushed through the tall wooden doors into a shuffle of plates and voices. It was a fashionable place. People clung to the stairs of the entry, each with their own cup of expensive coffee and cream, and each fighting for a chance to get in. The waiters were numerous and never stopped moving. The restaurant shot back into the building as though it were one long table with smaller ones on top of it. Scarce decorations. Two paintings watched the restaurant, white walls besides. We took our place at the bar—a separate section with a silver chef knife nailed to the beam above it. She set her camera on the bar and it bothered me, and I said so quietly. She brushed it off. It would be fine. The bartender had young eyes, but the wrinkles around them revealed an older age. He moved with great confidence and served us two Bloody Marys. I saw a break in his manner when a server placed a glass on the wrong shelf. His smile turned for a second and he spoke quietly with great force. The glass was then gone with the girl. I wondered at his true nature, but we only ever saw his warm smile after.

The worn wood of my grandfather’s desk. Now it is my desk.  A stage. A place of hopes and dreams. A place of frustration and failure.  Coffee stains, spilled beer, spilled wine, books to remind me of what I constantly forget.  A drawer of letters.  A wall of water colors.  I think and I think.  I write a word, it’s not so great.  A character, not so feral.  He, she, it needs something.  Something.  The words are there; the scenes are there.  They are all there, fighting to get out.  So tell me, “what do you want to say?”

Bootlaces are tied tight.  The fog amongst the trees, the cool air, the green moss, and the hanging lichen are the last remnants of a free world. Go too far in either direction and you run back into civilization. The rain falls all day, but with each hill, you’re a little warmer, and you shed a coat, or a hat, and then a sweater. With each hill, you are a little more at home in it.  The rain runs down your face. You no longer scowl; you close your eyes and welcome more. You are soaked, and you are laughing.  The streams, the rocks, the trees, the cliffs—they are all so perfectly put together. It is absurd to try to understand. Don’t seek to.  Run.  Leap the stream, jump on the rocks, tear through the trees.  Feel your chest heave and your legs tighten.  Feel yourself let go. Let yourself wonder and be content in it. There is no point, after all, but to wonder.