the iron age

Don and Martha woods

The forest is calling me. It calls me all of the time. It never stops calling me. I guess I encourage it. I say, give me a call. And the trees say, “when is a good time to reach you?” “There is no good time,” I say, “but you can always try.”

I think they are beginning to understand that I don’t like talking on the phone. It does nothing for me anymore, when once it did. But now it doesn’t. It must be an age thing. Like it was ok in the Bronze Age. But in the Iron Age, the phone just depletes me of whatever energies I have. Some of the trees are beginning to understand and accept this. Others are slower to catch on. I am just trying to be tolerant and non-judgemental. And to not let guilt overcome me if I don’t call them back. That’s the hardest part. And I don’t want to make them feel guilty for making me feel guilty. Things would be so much easier if none of us had phones.

Like tonight, I have this cloud hanging over me, all because I have not returned one call from one tree. It’s ruining my night. And now it’s all I can think about. Maybe it would be best if I never set foot in the forest again. Because if I did, there is no way I could avoid that tree.

And never setting foot in the forest feels like the easy way out. Maybe I can find a new forest where I don’t have any kind of history.


About The Lost Pedestrian

In my wanderings throughout the moments/days/years, I try in earnest to find the mystical within the mundane and the mundane within the mystical, oftentimes confusing one from the other. I have wandered and roamed through many a city, many a town, in a state of wonder and bewilderment, without necessarily going anywhere. I am easily lost, but eventually found. (I am guessing you have just found me). My sincere hope is that you will find Something in this warehouse of thought, memory and false memory, words, numbers, tangents, murmurs, echoes (lots and lots of echoes), voices, dreams, and other paraphernalia.
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