Tangled webs of weaving leaves and branches reach out from nowhere to everywhere.
Place of solace, place of pleasant dreams. Place where nightmares steal your peace. Forested colours of thoughts and cluttered whimsy.

They crawl before from within to surround you in nightmares of muddled scars and confusion.
Unabated by light or sun, sparkles glisten within hints of the dark.
Standing obscured, camouflaged by nature, but bow to no fear they are there. For the spirits in the shadows of the vines sense your every move and see your every projection of thought.

Pretend, “I am not here”, you think, attempt to will yourself to another more inviting place. Only to shake to wake yourself and see what you see, where you are, where you stand, is only far too real.

“My darling, my love, my uninvited, taken guest. Settle yourself in this place of no rest”, they decried like a street crooner calling, singing, compelling in the place where there are no streets.
“There is no escape from the clutches of my fantasy, for you, my one, I have chosen for me”, they said as if they are one.

The light you reach for, unreachable day is chased by the dark of the never ending night that follows you each step, every thought of your way.

Circle unbroken by time or by space, spiraling voices only you hear, in your mind, “It is you, who belongs here with me and us, and here you shall stay”.

A prisoner of a forest of reds, yellows, greens and orange, foliage is this world, you created just as you created me. And us. And together, us, we; will never be parted in this strangeness, this wonder of a world that does not exist and yet does. In your mind.

And oh, oh yes, we are so very real because you, you created me as us and now, I live.

I cannot die, I won't, because I have now become a part of you, inside the very being of your soul. In a forest of your imagination, in a dream of your wildest imaginings, one you never wanted and did do. Tangled and twisted and interwoven within you, inside you, in your head.

I am you now.

 

​

Monet's Weeping Willow, 1919.

A story of a thought inside an imagined dream never wanted yet was.

#Monet #Fiction #StoryFromArt #Words  Written November 5th to 6th, 2022.