I walked away from the setting sun, taking my time lifting my boots out of the dense, sticky mud. The air was full of a scent of earth and decay, the marshlands and the long grass slowly fading away. Soon, I found myself in a new room—a quiet grove where the air felt lighter, tinged with the crispness of early spring.

    Long birch trees stood up straight and slender, their bark smooth with black, sticky, resinous patches, looking like eyes staring from the gray background. Beneath, on the ground, decayed brown leaves textured the dirt, with delicate crimson leaves slowly drifting towards their descent on the ground. The ground was cool and moist, and a slight drizzle rained onto the dark, rich soil. It reminded me of my childhood, but I have never had a ch-child. A chill drifted through the autumn haze, a “runaway” breathing onto my skin. An image suddenly appeared in my mind, a birch tree, isolated from the rest. Its branches stretched far and wide, unlike the others, providing a shade to the ground below. Providing a shelter.

    I sighed. That feeling, that sensation, it had already drifted past. I call them “runaways”, sights, smells, sounds that linger through this labyrinth. I try my best to block them, but sometimes I feel that their intentions are right. I feel as though they are trying to pull myself from the labyrinth, into a place of “living”. A place of escape. The drizzle soon became a storm, and wind whistled through the branches, sending the leaves skirting across the ground. I quickly fled to beneath a tree, watching as the clouds covered the sun. Away from the trees, away from the land, a soft glow started to pulsate through the wind.

Stay Near The Tree:

https://sites.google.com/view/sheltertake/home

Towards The Glow:

https://sites.google.com/view/towardstheeversofterglow/home