Sometimes the voice inside is crying. It is crying madly. It is screaming and writhing and yelling "Enough!"
Lost in a world gone mad, I sometimes need to see something that is cruel, but true, wild, but sane. It is the forest that calls me. There is a lot to say, and to sing, and to think, and yet words seldom do it justice. Either you can feel it, and then my words or songs would be futile, or you cannot feel it, and it would be even more futile to rant about it. It is the forest that calls me, in its wintery desolation, in spring and in summer, but in the cold autumn rain no less. Maybe the voice is even stronger then, and autumn is the season where I want to wander, and wander alone.
Those ancient hills lay unfathomed even under a leaden sky, and even if there are fireroads hacking through its landscape, and harvester vehicles spill their noise and poison through the open forest... alone at last, and free from the ruckus and gibberish that man makes to date, all crying and howling "I AM! LOOK! I AM!" at no one and nothing in particular, getting into a mad frenzy. Sometimes I think that they all at once realized that no Mammonism can buy them out of their mortality and that they, looking at their own, ugly souls in all their naked distortion, simply got mad.
Now I am not saying that I am not mad. But I, for one, know that as a fact. I am a lunatic and far from sanity. I am broken, but I believe that there also is some beauty to it. I am no better than average Joe, but I have learned to pick up the fairy gold. You need an open hand for that, a hand that does not want to close over a sunbeam, and you need a bit of craziness to use it to sew yourself a cloak of golden light-or of twilight.
For I am a wanderer on dangerous paths, and I need a cloak of murk to hide beneath... I need moonbeams and shadow, I need green and the colour and scent of the autumn soil to clothe myself in winter.
Over the hills I went, and strolled through silent, murky forests, along those roads, towards the hilltop. I met no one but my soul, I heard no voice but silence.
Like a crevice the spruce and fir, swaying in a gentle breeze, led me further up the hill and deep, deep down into the secret.
The birch, finest hair and grey skin, stood there, breathing slower, and the floor was trimmed with sparkling gold. They say there´s a bucket of elf shit at the end of the rainbow... but the trees tell me otherwise.
The oak, still bearing its golden leaves, was standing guard at the gates of the secret.
Query: What is it, that secret of twigs and branches intertwined? What is it that is hemmed with twilight?
It is a feeling hovering, not intelligible in an everyday mindset, hovering above the crumbling ruins of the haughtiness of man, ivy-strangled, and moss-entangled. It is a feeling alien to man, or even beast, while beasts still live closer to it.
To the ruin on top of the hill I came and explored the shadows of rock and moss, of rotten timber and fallen tiles. To the top of the hill I came and explored that feeling of rock and rotten timber and twilight and moss and strangling ivy. There is a secret hidden inside that feeling. There is that cloak of twilight hidden inside the secret.
There is a tree that forever grows and prospers, a tree of light, a vision of white and green. A tree.
There is a tree, and its leaves are lights and moonbeams. A tree there is that forever shall sprout.
"Lachel calad - drego morn!"
