many dappled shadows
played on the forest's floor
as light winds did blow

𝑔𝓁𝑜𝓌𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓈
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓀𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝑜𝑜𝒹
𝒶𝓃 𝑜𝓌𝓁 𝒽𝑜𝑜𝓉𝓈
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓈
𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉

Where have I been? I’ve been climbing mountains, not metaphoric mountains, but real ground, rocky, tree and shrub bearing mountains. I’ve been sitting in the middle of forests, listening to what my senses tell me. For nature is all I need.

Why don’t I write anymore?
Let me ask you this, what is the point in writing?

Whatever I write has already been written. There are so many different languages and writings in this world already. So is there really a point in writing, when these words will be redundant and forgotten?

Instead I’m more fascinated by reading these different writings across the world that I can relate to. At times translations can be troublesome but it is worth the knowledge gained.

Maybe if I have something to share with the world that hasn’t already been shared, I’ll write again.

Why is it
That when I see
any
other
girl
I think, “oh! She’s so pretty!”

Why is it
I describe
Other people’s eyes
As
oceans
forests
streams
But mine are just ***** dishwater?

Why is it
I must change my hair
Damage it
Color it
In order for it to make me happy?

Why is it
That I am
my own
worst
critic?