A beautifully honest post by one of my favorite bloggers:
Every time I have visited this forest I have climbed the path up the hill. It is clearly a path – russet and spongy with fallen pine needles – but it is a path that doesn’t make itself easily known. The trail winds upwards, flanked by bracken and bramble, surrounded by fallen trees. There are small patches of colour depending on the season: a lone rhododendron, a clump of foxgloves, fruits of fly agaric. At its peak, it opens out onto a marshy cleft strung with telegraph wires. Then, the path moves on, straight ahead, deeper into the forest.
Sometimes the forest enfolds and comforts. Sometimes the forest is everything you fear. I have always feared the path ahead. It looks no different to any other path, but when I set foot on it I find myself breathing quietly and moving with caution. There is a low buzzing in my…
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