Perhaps I have been the wanderer for too long. I can hear your voice, a memory dancing in the wind. Words have since long lost their meaning. In isolation I have lost much, but found fragments of my soul. Thought without words, scents, sounds and impressions. Am I the wanderer, or the lone wolf howling in search of his pack? If I am human, why do I not feel it? I am the wing beat of Ravens, the flight-granting winds, the scent of pines and wet wood, the touch of soft moss underfoot. There are souls that remember, mine does not. There are souls that are young and vibrant, mine is not. There are old souls, as old as the forest. It is easy to get lost in the forest, a vast living labyrinth. There is no way of knowing its mysteries or what slumbers in the darker, hidden areas. Listen, listen to the hushed symphony of whispered secrets. A soul so old that it no longer smiles, it remembers that it can, but is unsure of how. A forest that wants to be human again. So come young, vibrant soul, teach the forest how to smile and love.
200 words. Photograph of me taken near Omberg, Sweden.