The Christmas Tree

What has sleep become when it's not a rest anymore.

Four months in this part of the world, two of them in darkness. 

The mind doesn't know where to be anymore.

I find myself not living in the world of life that I know and am familiar with, but amongst man-made things and rock. 

It's a toughness in self-love, yet a gentleness that one would only find in a creators love for her creations.

So I must rescue myself from a bad situation once more.

Because..

I just want to touch a tree again. 

I just want to smell morning dew again.

I just want to feel a warm wind against my skin again.

I just want to stand in the luke warm ocean water again.

I just want to feel the sun in my face again.

I just want a warm embrace again.

In this moment I realise that I even miss the flies. I miss the ants and the bees, and all the other small living beings that one usually doesn't take note of or value, but that we compete with subconsciously throughout our lives for space and energy. 

How could I possibly communicate my surroundings. How could I ever forget. 

This chapter is written with a bird's feather on animal skin, with ink made out of coal mixed with icy water.

I would never have guessed, that one day I would be able to relate to a Christmas tree.