Into the Woods

Hollywood always seems to make things more than what they are. People seem more interesting, places become more desirable, and age becomes a myth. We walk out on movies and write Rotten Tomato reviews swearing that real people are less predictable in real life. We couldn’t possibly be that boring or that dense.

I would beg to differ.

It’s hard to say that we aren’t as real as bad songs and poor character development. There are real life versions of Bella Swan just like there are real life Batman’s and Jokers. Lately I’m starting to get a little weary that I am expecting to much from many of the characters in my life. It hurts to think that I will always feel this different, especially since I can’t quite put my finger on why.

There is one thing that Hollywood does get right. It’s the feeling of the woods. There’s something about a scene filled with mossy trees and sunlight. I feel like my lungs can breathe in the dewy smell of Earth. I feel at home.

Something about the tranquility of the woods is pulling at the depths of me. The strive for community in this disconnect is my normal remedy, but huge screaming parts of me want to be left alone in this scene. There’s only one to share it with, and that is perhaps the biggest question of them all. There is something to find in the woods. There are big pieces of my Serenity/Sanity buried beneath the dirt. 

It’s time to dig it out.

The urgency is hitting me. My window is slowly closing for me to linger among redwoods. I can slowly feel time stealing the oaks that are begging for me to sit on them and write what needs to be written. My sleep is pleading for the escape. It won’t bring peace until I do.

So I will go into the woods, and pray to make it home before the darkness.