lost and longing

I like a path beneath me. It's not that I don't like clambering over the knots and secrets of forest floors, but that my feet dream of a thousand other travellers, and the dreams those travellers dreamed, and the way they might have seen the trees, when walking on a pathway.

That's for feet, though, and wandering about pretending to be a tourist. When it comes to writing and picture-taking, I like to be helicoptered in to a great strange woodland high in the wistful hills, and left to find my own way out by walking the paths of the forest dreams.




I'm not talking about freedom. I mean the experience of reaching, exploring, needing, worrying. Maybe it's a kind of method writing. Some use technique to ensure their reader's emotional experience. Some feel it themselves and then communicate: a shared relationship between reader and writer, written and read. All I know for sure is that I would not want to write by way of signpost, rest stops, and little labels on trees to tell me what they are (as if we could ever know). I want to be lost, and find my way home.


2 comments:

  1. beautiful...your last line has me sighing here in my morning room all across the world from you. xo

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