My Mind a Forest

 My mind is a forest, and I am alone.

 I will guard its twisting, endless darkness, waiting with anticipation and dread for the arrival. Of what? I do not know. Why I attempt to defy the inevitable, I also do not know. 

 Will it come as a beast? Snarling, emerging from the trees, jaws snapping, circling me. Drooling saliva at the prospect of consuming what happiness remains inside of me. Teeth so sharp and a cold look so vicious and torn with hatred I dare not to keep its gaze. But in truth is it the gaze and teeth that truly scares me, or the idea of the creature itself? Creatures are cruel but crueler still is the threat of one, the shadows that dance on the edge to play tricks upon your eyes. It is maddening to always be on the watch for one.

 But I do what I must, for I have no choice.

 Will it come as a flower? One weeding its way into my heart; enchanting me with its petals until it shows its thorns. It is yearning to have a hold of my being and take root in my suffering, it will come for me because of this, I know. To allow it to bloom in the decay of what is now my corpse; a husk of no mind, no will, no resistance, it is the true danger, I suppose. One that of a lowered guard, of letting something in only for it to be your undoing.

 Or might it come as a river? A divider between me and my saving grace, pulling me behind and pushing me to endless lengths of struggle. Giggling as it pulls my limbs like that of a marionette doll, controlling me and taunting me with my hopes and dreams just out of reach, just beyond the river bed. It will sleep well knowing my pain, drowning me for a smidge of entertainment. I would escape it, but the current is far too strong, and my will far too weak. Is this my place? A jester for not a king but a tyrant, false praise and smiles the only guarantee for my future?

 But who is the vicious beast? Who is it? Who is the false flower, the refusing river?

 Is it your friend? Your enemy? It is said to know thy enemy, is to know thyself, yet who am I? Am I the enemy? Who am I defending myself against, who am I making a shelter of trees to try to hide from? Are they here already? Are they coming for me? Does the beast lift its head only to be alerted of my presence, close enough for it to come in for the kill? Does the flower spread its vines and influence towards me already? Has the river carved away the ground beneath my feet, and joyfully taken me into its grasp?

 Are they already lurking in the woods?

 I despise the existence of that cold hard truth, looming over me, that regardless, these things are coming for me; whether now or in a thousand years they will choke me with their cruel grip. They are a promise. An eternity of watching and waiting and still succumbing in the end.

 How can I progress with this threat on my thoughts every moment? The world is a hard place to navigate, my mind a place even worse. The stars would be guiding my way if they were not concealed by the thick branches. Why are they hidden? Why is the forest concealing them from me?

 Why does it tease me? My hope, that is. Dancing around my peripheral, always on the rise yet contained by the thought, the idea of that possibility of evil. Hope is an evil force, clearly. It is never substantial, but always in the back of your heart, worsening your life. To think the world could be better is painful; to think the world could be better but it is choosing not to be, to be cruel, is painful.

 I know my fate; it is this. This is my end. Not an end at all but merely limbo. Grass may grow under my feet, a bird may sing over my head, but I will always still be here in my mind, an outcast in a world of my own creation.

 But are the beast, the flower, and the river also of my own creation? Or are they ramblings of a mad man? Nothing but a show of what isolation can do to someone like me?

 Who is someone like me?

 Maybe the betrayer is not the flower but the seedlings of doubt inside of my mind. The flower is the seedlings; the seedlings grow into the flower; an endless cycle of hidden meanings ever dark. Maybe the beast is not a personification of evil but a show of what happens when faced with evil. A person may be driven to cruelty out of the cruelty they face themselves. Maybe the river is not a force controlling me, but me giving in. 

 But why? I ask myself. Why do you give in? Why do you tend to your garden of trees, the grove of your mental misgivings; a sign of pure insanity?

 Why?

 Why are you alone in a forest of your own mind? Why are you here? Why are you trapped? What is life when you're not too deep in your head, when you don’t need to escape? I would never know, yet I wish I would have a taste of that freedom. But the dread will not let me lower my guard and stop the forest. I realize now that the forest is not protection from the threat; as I once thought. No, not at all. It is the threat. It is my downfall.

 You need to leave yourself. Leave the forest. Leave me. 

 The world is an oyster; and this, trust me, is not the pearl. This is not the meaning. Fate is resourceful; it would never design this for you. This is not your path.

 Walk a different one.

 Move on.

 Leave.

 Forgive the beasts.

 Know your own flowers.

 Never give in to the rivers.

 Burn the forest.