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  • The Whispering Berries: A Tale of Hawthorns and Time

    The Whispering Berries: A Tale of Hawthorns and Time

    In the quietude of an autumn afternoon, as the sun cast a gentle, melancholic glow over the garden, I found myself standing before a humble tub, a handful of hawthorn berries cradled in my palm. The berries, vibrant and red, seemed to pulsate with a life of their own, whispering secrets of the seasons and the cycles of time.

    A tub of hope

    The decision to plant these berries had come to me in a dream, or perhaps it was a memory, blurred at the edges like an old photograph. I had been walking through a forest, the air crisp and cool, when I stumbled upon a hawthorn tree, its branches laden with crimson fruit. The tree seemed to beckon me, its thorns glinting in the dappled sunlight, and I knew then that I must bring a piece of this wild, untamed beauty into my own small world.

    I had always been drawn to hawthorns, with their delicate white flowers in spring and their fiery berries in autumn. They seemed to embody the duality of life—beauty and pain, growth and decay, all intertwined in a dance as old as time itself. And so, with a sense of reverence, I began to plant the berries, each one a tiny promise of life to come.

    The tub, a simple vessel of earth and possibility, sat before me like an altar. I knelt down, feeling the cool soil between my fingers, and began to press the berries gently into the ground. Each one seemed to sigh softly as it settled into its new home, a quiet acceptance of the journey ahead. I wondered what dreams they might hold, what stories they might tell as they grew and changed with the passing of the seasons.

    As I worked, my mind wandered, as it often does, to the strange and wondrous paths that life can take. I thought of the hawthorn trees that had stood for centuries, silently watching the ebb and flow of human existence. I thought of the birds that would one day feast on the berries, their songs echoing through the garden like ancient melodies. And I thought of the quiet, unassuming beauty of growth—the slow, steady unfurling of life from the smallest of seeds.

    The hawthorn, I knew, was a symbol of hope and protection in many cultures. It was said to guard against evil spirits, to bring good fortune, and to heal the heart. As I planted the berries, I found myself hoping for all these things and more. I hoped for the courage to face the unknown, for the strength to endure the storms of life, and for the wisdom to appreciate the beauty in the everyday.

    And so, with the berries planted and the tub nestled in a sunny corner of the garden, I stepped back and took a deep breath. The air was filled with the scent of earth and the faintest hint of something more—a promise, perhaps, or a whisper of things to come. I knew that the journey of these hawthorn berries was only just beginning, and I looked forward to the days and seasons ahead with a sense of anticipation and wonder.

    In the quiet moments that followed, as the sun dipped lower in the sky and the shadows lengthened, I felt a profound sense of connection—to the earth, to the cycles of life, and to the mysterious, unknowable forces that guide us all. And as I turned to walk back into the house, leaving the berries to their dreams and their destiny, I knew that I, too, was a part of this vast and wondrous tapestry, forever intertwined with the whispering hawthorns and the dance of time.

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  • Pentre Ifan, Pembrokeshire – The Great Undertaking

    Pentre Ifan, Pembrokeshire – The Great Undertaking

    Journal of Caradoc the Builder

    Pembrokeshire, Pentre Ifan,
    6000 years old and home to the fairies 🙂

    Day 1 – The Command

    The chieftain has spoken. A great tomb must be built—one that will stand for generations, a place where the spirits of our ancestors may rest in peace. I, Caradoc, have been chosen to oversee the task. It is an honor, but also a burden. The stones are vast, heavier than any man should be able to move. How can we, with mere hands and ropes, shape such a monument?

    I wish the fair folk would aid us. The elders say the Tylwyth Teg, the fairies of the hills, move stones with ease, whispering to them in a tongue only the earth understands. If only they would come to our aid, lift these great rocks into place, and spare us the toil ahead. But the fair folk are fickle, appearing only when they choose. We must struggle on without them.

    Day 5 – The Stones Resist Us

    The men are weary. We have stripped the strongest oaks to make rollers, twisted the toughest hides into ropes. Yet the stones barely shift. The great capstone, the largest of them all, refuses to move. It is as if the land itself grips it, unwilling to let it rise.

    The night is cold, the wind howling over the hills. I swear I hear laughter in the dark, soft voices on the wind. The fair folk are watching. Do they mock us, or do they test our resolve? If they wished, they could lift the stones as if they were feathers. Yet they remain silent, unseen, leaving the burden to us.

    Day 12 – The Earth Swallows Our Efforts

    The rains have come, turning our labor into a futile struggle. The earth drinks the water greedily, turning to mud, swallowing our stones and filling the pits we have dug. We lose men to exhaustion, to wounds from failing ropes and shifting rock. The tomb fights us at every step.

    At dusk, I leave an offering—honey, fresh milk, and bread—on the highest stone, a gift for the Tylwyth Teg. If they have any mercy, if they still care for the deeds of men, let them aid us now.

    Day 20 – A Change in Fortune

    Something is different. The rains have ceased, the ground has hardened. The men move with renewed strength. Today, we raised the last of the uprights, the stones sliding into place as if the earth finally allows it. Perhaps our offerings have been accepted, or perhaps the fair folk simply tired of watching us struggle.

    Tonight, as the fire crackles, I hear the faintest laughter again, carried on the wind. A whisper, almost playful. Did they push the stones when we were not looking? Or did they merely lift our spirits, lending us unseen strength? I do not know. But I feel their presence all the same.

    Day 25 – The Final Stone

    The capstone rests upon its pillars at last. A gateway between worlds, standing as it should. The tomb is complete. The men cheer, but I say nothing. In the silence of the evening, I sense something beyond us, something watching.

    Perhaps it was never just our strength that built this place. Perhaps, when we were at our weakest, unseen hands helped us. Or perhaps the fair folk simply wished to remind us—magic is not only in the whispers of the wind, but in the determination of men who dare to move the unmovable.

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  • At Nevern, Time Doesn’t Pass—It Pools Around Your Feet

    At Nevern, Time Doesn’t Pass—It Pools Around Your Feet

    A lone traveler stands beneath the towering yew tree in the churchyard of Nevern, Pembrokeshire. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and resin, and the soft hush of wind through the branches is the only sound. A second figure stands beside them, clothed in a long woolen cloak, feet calloused from the road, eyes bright with devotion. Though centuries separate them, they see the same sacred place, feel the same weight of history pressing on their shoulders.

    “Do you see?” The medieval pilgrim gestures toward the Bleeding Yew, the deep red sap weeping from its bark. “They say it bleeds for justice, and it will not stop until the world is fair.” Their voice is heavy with belief.

    The modern visitor runs a hand over the rough bark, watching the slow seep of crimson. “I’ve read about it—some say it’s just a natural phenomenon, something about the tree’s resin reacting to wounds. But still… standing here, it feels like more than that.” They hesitate, then add, “Maybe it does bleed for something. Maybe it always will.”

    The pilgrim nods, satisfied. “Come. There is more to take in.”

    Never, yew tree
    Me and the great Celtic cross

    Together, they walk toward the Great Celtic Cross, its weathered stone rising 13 feet defiantly into the sky. The pilgrim reaches out, tracing the loops and knots carved into its surface. “This is eternity,” they murmur. “No beginning, no end. Just faith, winding on forever.”

    The visitor studies the carvings, fingers brushing lightly over the stone. “It’s amazing. To think of the hands that made this, how many people must have stood before it, just like we are now. Even after all this time, it still stands.”

    “As it should,” the pilgrim replies. “A signpost for those on the road to St David’s. A beacon for the weary pilgrim.”

    Just outside the church. The Vitalianus Stone, carved into a pillar in Ogham and Latin the words “VITALIANI EMERTO” suggests the resting place of an important man named Vitaliani. The two languages hint at ancient connections between pagans and Christians. Its inscriptions whispering secrets from the past that we may never understand. The pilgrim kneels before it, tracing the letters. “He was a leader once, a man of faith and strength. His name endures in stone, even as his body has long turned to dust.”

    The visitor leans in, examining the Latin and Ogham script. “It’s strange. We carve our names into things, thinking it will make us last forever. But in the end, it’s the stories that survive, not the physical marks.”

    The pilgrim smiles. “You understand.”

    Inside the church, cool air wraps around them, thick with the scent of wax and old stone.  On one of the windowsills, they see the Megalocnus Stone, where the marks of the older tongue carve deep into the rock. Megalocnus is referenced as far back as the sixth century, affirming the stone’s age. The visitor shakes their head in wonder. “This writing—Ogham—it’s like the language of the land itself, growing up from the stone.”

    The pilgrim rests a hand against it. “We mark the world, and the world marks us.”

    On another windowsill, they find the Pilgrim’s Cross, shallowly etched into the stone. The modern visitor touches the carving, feeling its rough edges. “So many hands must have traced this over the years.”

    “I made my own mark,” the pilgrim admits, voice quiet. “And those after me, and those after them. We all do. All hoping to pass through life, to the next, peacefully.”

    They pause before the Norman-era Rood Screen, its carved wood forming a delicate boundary between the sacred and the earthly. The visitor runs their hand along its surface. “It’s so intricate. So much work must have gone into this.”

    “Devotion is in the small detail as well as the bigger view,” the pilgrim replies. “In all things, we find the divine.”

    At the 700 year old Medieval Baptismal Font, the pilgrim dips their fingers, letting the cool water trickle over their skin. “A new beginning,” they whisper.

    The visitor hesitates, then does the same. The water is cold against their fingertips, sending a shiver through them. “Some things never change,” they murmur.

    Outside, the old Sundial catches the last light of the afternoon. The visitor laughs softly. “Hundreds of years ago, someone stood right here, checking the time by the same sun we’re looking at now.”

    The pilgrim nods. “And after another thousand, others will do the same.”

    A short walk uphill leads them to the second Pilgrim’s Cross, carved deep into the rock behind the church. The view stretches below them, the land rolling away toward the river. The pilgrim kneels, bowing their head in prayer.

    The visitor stands in silence, breathing in the crisp air. “It must have been hard,” they say at last. “Walking so far, carrying all your hopes with you.”

    The pilgrim exhales, voice full of quiet conviction. “Hope is never a burden. It is the reason we walk.”

    As they walk toward the ruins of Nevern Castle, the shadows grow long. The stones stand witness to battles and prayers lingering in the air.

    “Time is strange here,” the visitor muses. “It doesn’t feel like it’s passing. It just… is.”

    The pilgrim smiles. “At Nevern, time doesn’t pass—it pools around your feet.”

    The modern traveller, now seeped in the church’s history, looking down to their feet, feels a pull to join the age-old pilgrimage. Looking up, they see the ancient pilgrim is making their way–fading into the distance. “God bless!”

    (not my photo)
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  • The Rabbit and the Flight.

    The Rabbit and the Flight.

    Once again, I find myself running. The corridors shift beneath my feet, stretching, bending, distorting as though they belong not to the material world but to the unconscious itself—shapeless, fluid, dictated by forces unknown to my waking mind. And yet, I know with certainty that behind me, just at my heels, is the rabbit.

    It is a creature of no real threat. Small, brown, its form is innocent, even benign. It does not snarl, does not leap toward me with aggression. It speaks only a single word:

    “Run.”

    And so I do. I flee through this labyrinth, though I do not know from what. The rabbit, too, is running—but is it pursuing me or warning me? Or is it simply the manifestation of my own unconscious, given form in this nocturnal theater of repression?

    The animal figure, the chase, the command—each element is symbolic, drawing from the deep well of my psyche. The rabbit, so often a symbol of fertility, of innocence, of uncontrollable instinct, stands as a representation of something primal within me. It urges me onward, yet it is not the true source of my terror. No, the true fear lies in the unseen, the thing that lurks beyond, the thing that both the rabbit and I are escaping.

    Could it be the manifestation of a suppressed desire? A latent anxiety? Am I fleeing some forbidden impulse, one too dangerous to acknowledge in waking life? Or is this rabbit the embodiment of duty, of expectation—some force within me that demands I move forward, though I do not know why, nor toward what?

    The dream repeats, night after night, and yet its meaning eludes me, slipping through my fingers like sand. Perhaps I do not wish to know. Perhaps the mind protects itself from revelations too unbearable to face. And yet, I know this much:

    I run not from the rabbit, but from what it represents. And so long as I do not turn to face it, I shall remain forever in flight.

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  • The Room Without Doors

    The Room Without Doors

    I wake up, as always, in the same room. The walls are gray, but I don’t remember if they were always gray or if they simply absorbed the color of my thoughts over time. There is a door, but it does not open. Or maybe it does, and I have forgotten how to turn the handle. In any case, I do not leave.

    Loneliness is not an event. It does not arrive with fanfare or explanation. It is a slow accumulation, like dust settling in corners you rarely notice. You do not decide to be alone; you simply wake up one day and realize that no one has knocked on your door for a long time.

    At first, I tried to fight it. I wrote letters, but I had no one to send them to. I walked the streets, but the people I passed were like shadows, their faces indistinct, their voices muffled. I tried to summon memories of warmth, of conversation, of touch. But memories are unreliable—paper-thin imitations of something that once had weight. Eventually, even they began to fade.

    There is a man who sometimes appears in my dreams. He wears a hat, smokes a cigarette, and speaks in riddles. Last night, he sat across from me at a café that no longer exists and stirred his coffee without drinking it.

    “You are mistaken,” he said. “You think loneliness is an absence, but it is not. It is a presence.”

    “A presence?” I asked.

    “Yes,” he said. “Like fog. Like hunger. It fills the spaces between things. It grows when you try to ignore it.”

    I woke up before I could ask him what to do.

    This morning, I stood in front of the mirror for a long time. My reflection looked unfamiliar, like a photograph left in the sun too long. I touched the glass, as if trying to confirm my own solidity. I wondered, briefly, if I had become a ghost. But no—ghosts haunt others. I haunt only myself.

    Outside, the world continues. People board trains, read newspapers, fall in love, make mistakes, grow old. I remain here, in my room without doors, waiting for something that will not come.

    Perhaps the man in my dream was right. Loneliness is not an absence. It is a thing with shape and substance. It sits beside me as I write this. It watches over my shoulder. It will be here tomorrow.

    And the day after that.

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  • Of Steel Cathedrals and Silent Green Martyrs

    Of Steel Cathedrals and Silent Green Martyrs

    So it goes: I’ve got this picture in my head, or maybe on my phone, or perhaps etched into the back of my eyelids by some cosmic etcher with a dark sense of humor.

    Steel giants bite clouds— 
    elevators hum progress. 
    Roots crack the sidewalk.

    The trees are just… there, like they’ve always been, like they’re waiting for someone to apologize. The skyscrapers, though—oh, those glorious, preposterous middle fingers to gravity. Let’s talk about those first, because humanity loves a crescendo, even if the finale is a dirge. 

    The skyscrapers. Let’s call them what they are: tombstones for the ego of the species. Each one a Babel reboot, a steel-and-glass hymn to the gods of More. You can almost hear them creak under the weight of their own symbolism. “Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair”, they whisper, though their HVAC systems hums tunes of existential dread. They are triumphs, sure—miracles of engineering, collaboration, and the kind of optimism that requires ignoring leaky seams or rust’s patience. Their house stock trades, divorces, and 3 PM Zoom meetings where someone inevitably says, “Let’s circle back.” Progress! Marvelous, merciless progress. 

    But what price progress? The trees, for instance. My eyes keep sliding off those vainglorious towers and snagging on the trees. *Why?* They’re not even special trees. No sequoias, no oaks with love’s naive initials carved by heartbroken teens. Just… trees. Green things that photosynthesize like CO2’s going out to fashion. Yet there they are, roots knuckling into the dirt, leaves doing that little shudder-dance in the wind, as if to say, “You built all that? Cute.”

    So here I am: a mammal with a primate brain, inexplicably soothed by chlorophyll and bark. The skyscrapers? They’re impressive, sure. But they’re also lonely. You ever notice that? All those windows, and not one of them opens wide enough to yell, “What are we doing here?” The trees, though—they’ve got a different loneliness. The kind that doesn’t need answering. The kind that just *is*, like tax returns or the sound of your own heartbeat at 3 AM. 

    Maybe it’s the scale. The skyscrapers shrink me; the trees do too, but politely. One says, “You are a speck.” The other says, “So am I. Let’s have a beer.” There’s a humility in their persistence, these green martyrs. They don’t care if you admire them. They’re not checking LinkedIn. They’re just… enduring, the way mold endures in a bachelor’s fridge—quietly. Without fanfare. Without elevators.  

    So here I am, a hairless ape with a pension plan, caught between cathedrals of ambition and these shaggy, unkempt priests of green. The skyscrapers win, of course. They always win. But the trees—oh, the trees—they *wait*. And in their waiting, there’s a kind of rebellion. A reminder that progress is a firework, but life is a tide that flows unending.  

    And so it goes.

    A thousand windows 
    reflect nothing. The trees breathe— 
    “Are we alive yet?” 

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  • Retro Revival: Peace, Love, and the Eternal Appeal of Bell-Bottoms

    Retro Revival: Peace, Love, and the Eternal Appeal of Bell-Bottoms

    Now, snap back to 2025. You’re scrolling Instagram, and suddenly—there it is: a perfectly curated photo of someone wearing bell-bottoms, holding a macramé handbag, and standing in front of a van that says, “Groovy Times.” It hits you like a cloud of secondhand incense. You want that. You want to live in that vibe. Even if the closest you’ve come to protesting is rage-quitting Twitter, and the only grass you’ve touched is your kale smoothie.

    But why? Why does the hippy era continue to have such a chokehold on us? Is it the aesthetic? The music? The idea of peace and love when the world feels like a chaotic dumpster fire? Or is it just that we secretly love the smell of leather fringe and marijuana? Let’s light an imaginary joint (or, you know, a soy candle) and dive in.


    The Eternal Coolness of Being Chill
    There’s something deeply appealing about the hippy ethos of “turn on, tune in, drop out.” Sure, it was originally about rebelling against The Man and escaping societal norms, but let’s face it: in the era of burnout and hustle culture, who doesn’t want to “drop out”? We’re not even dropping out to go to Woodstock. We’re dropping out just to stay in bed and doom-scroll TikTok. It’s the same energy, but with fewer drum circles.

    The hippies didn’t have smartphones, but they did have time to sit in fields and strum guitars while pondering the meaning of existence. They were about connection—real, face-to-face, let’s-hold-hands-and-feel-the-earth-between-our-toes connection. Compare that to now, where we’re lucky if we make it through a FaceTime call without accidentally freezing mid-sentence.


    Fashion That Says, “I’m One with the Universe (and Maybe a Little High)”
    Let’s talk about the clothes. The bell-bottoms. The crochet tops. The flower crowns. It’s as if someone looked at conventional clothing and said, “What if we dressed like we’re part of the scenery at Joshua Tree?”

    And somehow, decades later, it still works. There’s something undeniably freeing about wearing something flowy and unstructured. It’s like telling the world, “I’m not going to let pants dictate my day. I’m here to vibe.” Plus, let’s be honest—retro fashion hides a multitude of sins. No one’s checking if you did leg day when you’re swishing around in palazzo pants.


    The Music Was Better When It Was Vinyl
    I know, I know. Every generation says their music was the best, but let’s get real for a second: the ’60s and ’70s absolutely crushed it. The Beatles. Janis Joplin. Hendrix shredding a guitar like it owed him money. It wasn’t just music; it was a movement.

    When you drop a needle on a vinyl record, it’s like entering a time machine. There’s that warm crackle, the richness of analog sound, and the fact that you can’t skip tracks without looking like a DJ who lost their way. You’re forced to experience the music, which is maybe why it hits so hard.


    Rebellion, but Make It Whimsical
    At its heart, the hippy era wasn’t just about fashion or music; it was about flipping the bird to societal norms. Peace, love, and rebellion—wrapped up in a tie-dyed bow. They were idealistic to a fault, but maybe that’s why we love them.

    In a world where we’re bombarded with bad news and hot takes, there’s something comforting about looking back on a time when people truly believed they could change the world. Sure, the execution was messy (and often involved questionable substances), but the dream was beautiful.


    Why Retro Revival Is Here to Stay
    So why do we keep going back to this era? Because it reminds us of possibility. Of creativity. Of sticking flowers in your hair and flipping off Richard Nixon. Retro revival isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s about recapturing the feeling that maybe, just maybe, things can get better if we all hold hands and sing “All You Need Is Love.”

    And if that doesn’t work, at least we’ll look fabulous in fringe jackets while we try.

    There you go—a whimsical, irreverent homage to the hippy era, written with the kind of energy that says, “Pass the kale chips and crank up Fleetwood Mac.”

    What do era would you like to go back to?

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  • Ramble to the summit of life

    Ramble to the summit of life

    The Brecon Beacons loomed in the distance, their snow-capped peaks smudged by a veil of mist. I snapped a picture from the base, and the image felt as though I was staring at an unattainable dream—a far-off cathedral built for gods, not mortals like me.

    Brecon Beacons January 2025

    The peaks seemed untouchable, enshrined in a kind of holy fog, as if they were hiding some secret I wasn’t meant to know. But what else could I do? I tightened my laces and started walking.

    The trail began innocently enough, a gradual incline, a whisper of mud clinging to my boots, and the wind humming a tune, as if to say ‘this place is not for you’. Step by step, the Beacons grew taller and stranger. The snowline hovered above me like an unspoken threat, a reminder that everything good in life comes with its sharp edges and cold hands. I wondered if I’d even make it. I wondered now why I’d started at all.

    Somewhere just below the snowline, I stopped to catch my breath. That’s when I saw it. A deer. Small, delicate, its legs like question marks frozen in mid-thought. It stared at me for a moment, eyes wide, then leapt away into the trees, vanishing like a memory you can’t quite hold onto. I watched the spot where it disappeared, as if waiting for it to come back and explain itself. But it didn’t. And why should it? Some things are meant to be glimpsed, not understood.

    Snow-capped peaks above,
    Cold trials test weary feet—
    I walk through the doubt.

    The higher I climbed, the thicker the mist became. I felt like I was walking into a dream, one of those nonsensical ones where the setting changes as soon as you think you’ve figured it out. The snow crunched under my boots, and the world shrank to the size of my next step. The peaks I had seen from below were gone, swallowed by the fog. For a while, I thought I might be swallowed, too.

    It was harder than I thought it would be, and I wasn’t sure I’d make it. But isn’t that how life feels sometimes? Like you’re staring up at some impossibly high peak, the path ahead hidden in mist, and every step forward feels like a gamble. But still, you keep going. Not because you’re sure you’ll make it, but because there’s nowhere to turn back to.

    Then, suddenly, I was there. The mist broke like a spell lifting, and the summit unfolded in front of me. The snow glittered in the sunlight, and the peaks stretched out like an unrolled map. It was vast and beautiful and sharp-edged, and for the first time in hours, I felt like I could breathe.

    Looking back down the trail, I thought of the image I’d taken at the base. That distant, unreachable peak was now beneath my feet. The mist that had seemed so impenetrable was gone, burned away by nothing more than time and effort. I thought about the deer, how it had stopped just long enough to remind me that there is beauty in the world and how it had raised my spirits to keep going.

    The walk back down was easier, as it always is. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how the summit had felt. Like a small, personal victory. Like proof that the peaks in life—the ones that feel impossibly far away, hidden by fog and fear—are often closer than we think.

    You just have to keep walking.

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  • Breath of the Forest

    Breath of the Forest

    The air—it’s alive. It hums, doesn’t it? Or maybe it’s in my head. No, no, it’s real, vibrating in my chest, crawling through my skin like tiny electric sparks. Is this how air used to feel? Clean, wet, soft like velvet. Not the choking, recycled stuff, scraped thin by machines. My chest feels raw, unprepared for it, like I’ve swallowed something too pure for my body.

    Pure Bliss

    And the trees—heavens, the trees. They stretch forever, all the way up, vanishing into green shadows and sunlight, folding together like lace. Too tall. Too wide. Too much. My eyes can’t hold them all at once. I try. I can’t. I blink, and they shift, ripple, like they’re breathing. The bark, cracked and grooved like skin—no, like stone—but warmer, alive, alive, alive. My fingers press against it. It presses back. Does it know I’m here? Does it care?

    I don’t trust this. It’s too perfect. Too much light, too much green, too much life. It’s like a story I heard when I was a kid. Forests with wolves and deer and wind that whispers. People who walked barefoot on the dirt, dirt that smelled like rain. It was a bedtime lie, wasn’t it? They said we killed it. Burned it. Paved it over and left it for dead. And yet here it is, here I am, knees sinking into the moss. Moss—soft like the fabric of dreams, cool under my palms.

    Dream. Yes, that’s it. This is a dream. It has to be. A glitch. My mind spinning out, a defense mechanism. The tether’s broken, I see the matrix. I’ll wake up. I’ll wake up back in the gray, the hum of machines in my ears. No birds. No birds there. But I hear them here—high, sharp, calling out into the endless green. Birds. I almost laugh. They’re real. Or I’ve invented them. Can I invent sound this beautiful?

    The smell—merciful earth, what is that smell? It’s dirt, yes, but sweeter, richer, like something blooming. Flowers? Do flowers have a smell? Not the ones we grew in the domes, sterile and waxy, pretty but hollow. These are alive, pulsing like veins in the air, like a thousand tiny hearts opening up at once. Too much. It’s too much. I close my eyes, but the forest doesn’t leave. It presses into me, through me, like it wants to crawl inside my lungs, nestle into my ribs

    Woods Imagined

    I can’t go back. How can I go back? They’ll laugh. They won’t understand. They’ll say, Oh, Aaron, the tether scrambled your mind. Forests? Sure. We had those. Once. And what did they do for us? They won’t smell this, feel this. They’ll never know how it moves, how it whispers. I could try to tell them, but the words wouldn’t come. They’re caught in my throat, tangled like the vines wrapping around the trees, twisting upward, desperate for the light.

    The wind. It moves like a sigh, brushing my skin. It knows me. Does it know what I’ve come from? What I’ve left behind? I taste salt, but I’m not crying. Am I? Maybe the forest is crying. Maybe it remembers what’s coming. What’s already happened. Or maybe it’s laughing, laughing at me, a man from the hollow future, standing here like a ghost in a world too alive to make sense.

    I sit. No, I collapse. My legs are shaking, useless. The moss takes me, cradles me like it’s been waiting. The air is thicker now, heavier, like it’s wrapping around me. A cocoon. I want to stay here. Let it swallow me whole. Let it keep me. The tether can break, and I’ll drift here forever, lost in this green dream.

    A sound—a bird, maybe? Or a branch snapping. Too sharp to be the wind. I twist, searching, but there’s nothing, only more trees. Endless trees. Watching me. Whispering to me. I think I hear words. No, not words. Something older, deeper. The pulse of roots in the soil. The creak of branches holding the sky. They know. They know what we’ve done.

    “I’m sorry,” I say aloud, my voice thin, swallowed by the forest. It feels like a lie. The words aren’t enough. Nothing is enough. My hand touches the ground—soft, cool, alive—and I want to sink into it, vanish into the earth like water. Let me stay. Let me forget what we became.

    The wind rises again, stronger this time, carrying the scent of leaves and damp earth. It washes over me, through me. My head is heavy. My eyes close. I’m floating. No—sinking. Sinking into the moss, the soil, the hum of the trees. The air thickens around me, soft as a blanket.

    “Let me stay,” I whisper, though I don’t know who I’m asking. The forest answers with silence, the kind that hums, vibrates, breathes. My chest aches with it. My heart beats too fast. Or maybe it’s slowing. Or maybe it’s the forest’s heart now, and mine is gone.

    I’ll wake up soon, back in the gray. Won’t I? But the wind doesn’t let go. The moss holds tight. The light filters through my eyelids, green and gold, and I think—maybe I won’t wake up. Maybe I was never awake at all.

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  • Chrysanthemum Art

    Chrysanthemum Art

    Chrysanthemums have been a popular subject in art for centuries, celebrated for their beauty and symbolism. Here are some famous paintings and artistic works featuring chrysanthemums:

    Chrysanthemum

    Claude Monet

    Monet, the French Impressionist master, painted several works featuring chrysanthemums. In his characteristic style, he captures their vibrant colors and delicate textures, showcasing their charm. His painting “Chrysanthemums” is a striking example of how Impressionists used light and color to bring flowers to life.

    Pierre-Auguste Renoir

    Renoir, another Impressionist, was also captivated by chrysanthemums. His painting “Chrysanthemums” features a vase overflowing with the blooms, emphasizing their lushness and intricate forms. Renoir’s brushwork highlights the flowers’ natural beauty.

    Van Gogh

    While Van Gogh is most famous for his sunflowers, he also painted chrysanthemums. His still-life works featuring these flowers reflect his love of vibrant colors and his ability to imbue still objects with emotional depth.

    Ito Jakuchu

    Ito Jakuchu, a Japanese Edo-period artist, created intricate and vibrant scrolls of chrysanthemums. His work reflects the flower’s importance in Japanese culture and combines realism with a sense of spiritual elegance.

    Qi Baishi

    Qi Baishi, a master of traditional Chinese painting, often depicted chrysanthemums in his works. Using expressive brushstrokes and ink washes, he captured their essence with simplicity and depth.

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