Critical, creative and digital writingEcriture critique, créative et numérique

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Embodied forest

I remember that place where I woke up during that night: the gloomy forest of my hidden thoughts. I was darkness, sensing my body only by mind. I saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled even less: complete darkness. At one point, I thought I was dead, but I wasn't: it was only fear. I patted myself, checking the way my body would react to my own touching. It was strange. I was aware that I was making contact, but I could not feel it on my skin. Some moments later, I think, I began seeing my surroundings. Such tall pillars were all around that I almost lost my footing. I couldn't perceive their pointed tops, which made me realise I was a very small creature in there. A roar which wasn't one was heard. I scanned the whole perimeter, but nothing was there, except trees and wind. Of course. I knew it from the start, I was the only one able to breathe in that enclosed space. It was my world I was sensing, my inner one. So the wind, was it my soul? Whatever. The storm struck before dawn, before I could clearly see the doomed forest. I was scared. At that moment I knew its winds, lightnings and rains would wash up the whole of it. Complete eradication. The end of an era. The beginning of nothingness. First, leaves were torn apart from their branches. Ideas were forgotten. Then, trees got uprooted from their original spot. People I knew started vanishing from my memory. Last, the whole forest was blown out. My identity got blank. It wasn't my soul, no. It was my deeds that destroyed the forest of my memory. Still, still was my body, motionless on that ground of nought. It was the only thing left of me, left to me. In the end, I realised I was chunks of sensing pieced together. I understood that I would remain that forever, that empty shell, as long as I wouldn't allow the forest of my memory to grow up harmoniously. And yet, I wonder each time before I get to sleep whether I'll wake up in a forest, or in a clearing.