The thriving, burning passion to leave my footprints in as much of this earth as possible, has never left my side. The beauty of changes in nature astonishes me; the cycle of life and death has the potential to teach our world how to live. Not exist. Live. I sat in the woods, in the midst of twigs, mud, insects, and brisk wind, feeling like a bird in a nest, unusually snug and at peace. I felt the sharp twigs tear their way into my skin. The feeling was equivalent to that of heart break, but physical. I placed a leaf in my palm and enclosed it with my fingers, one by one. Winter killed the leaves; the crunching under my fingers echoed in the silence of the woods. The web of branches surrounding me mimicked the dying rage and pain I felt. I stared out into the depths of these branches from my spot in the mesh of dirt and leaves, and wondered if I'd ever find my way out. The branches seemed to grow thicker as if asking me to stay for a little longer. My toes were already buried deep in the soil. The cold and dampness no longer bothered me. Life brewed in such a seemingly barren place, and I wondered why. Maybe what kept my home alive, in the depths of bitterness, is the knowledge that it was preparing for life. My eyes began to water then sting, and my vision became blurred. I slid my eyes up and down, left and right, and realised that this cloud of fury, hope, love, life, has escaped my lips. My lips.

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