White sheets.
Big fluffy white pillows.
White flowing curtains.
White walls.
White carpet.
White ceiling.
White everything.
Everything white and untainted.

In my white shirt and white undies,
I lay my big fluffy hair on the big fluffy white pillows
And rub my white feet
and my white legs
against the silky white crumpled sheets.

In this cold white room
Beneath the glow of white fluorescent
I bury my white face
In these white white sheets.

There was no music. Just the whispering breeze. The swishing of the trees. Water trickling from a nearby spring. Footsteps, crunching dried leaves and rocks.

But everywhere was a work of art. Finely sculpted hillsides. The horizon so perfect as it would appear in a postcard, or a painting. I wished you could see all the wonder that surrounded me; a feast for my eyes and soul. Clouds touched my face. Cold, gentle strokes brushed against my cheeks. The skies were everclear, everything within sight was flooding with pure beauty. Everything. And I was overwhelmed with awe. The place was heaven. Nothing in it was ugly. Not even the insects. Not even the flakes of crushed foliage. Beautiful things surrounded me, embraced my frailties, conquered my stupid fears. Yet I panted like a dog.

In broad daylight I thought I was gonna faint in the middle of that endless road of stones and mud. With the scorching sun above my head and an unfathomable cliff by my side that followed me everywhere, I felt like I was gonna fall into infinity until the depths of the mountains finally swallow me whole. I was hoping to fall and hit my skull against a giant rock, or for a beast to lounge out of the bushes and devour me altogether.

In the dead of the night, I shivered helplessly despite the thick sheets. My lips were caked. My icy fingers felt like crunchy pretzel sticks that could snap and break into pieces anytime. I thought I was gonna freeze to death. I expected to die there. I wanted to live there, or die right then. I hated to go back to the real world, because right there was the real world. Everything in it was real. The mountains in all its grandeur. It seemed like the entirety of Kingdom Plantae was right before me. Everything I could see was made by God. Nothing tarnished, nothing that could remind me of the chaotic city life.

Nothing there to remind me of you.

Still I wrote this all thinking of you, longing to call for your rescue as I finally slipped from a slimy stone and fell off and rolled down the slope of the woods, rolled over and over again... it seemed endless, but the smell of death came nearer and nearer every second. As my skull crashed into a white rock larger than life, I lay face down, there, in a nowhere. I was reduced to nothing but a lost corpse among dead trees and dried leaves. I was just a speck, a lifeless dot in the midst of the vast grassland. Nobody found me. Mother nature had buried me herself in her own navel. Hence I am forever gone, privileged to have rotten amongst the pieces of the forest which I have obsessed about all my life, but deprived of the one chance to bid you goodbye. I wish I could sneak into your room tonight, seep through the space between your door and the ground... Tower over you, float above your bed and watch you sleep, kiss you in the forehead and lay my desperate ghost by your side for the last time.

But I wrote this all with tangible hands. The sadness is real. I am alive. I got out of the mountains alive and unscathed. I am headed home, back into the city. That ugly place where people only care about money and dolled-up sluts. Soon I will be reunited with my cold bed. I will be home and you will not be there. You never were.

She was found there lifeless in the woods, lying among the crisp autumn leaves. The trees casted perfect shadows on her moonpale face, the orange gleam of the dying sunset pricked through the spaces between leaves and barks, exactly as she had envisioned. Her caked lips were parted; she seemed to have died agape as her stiff fingers clung to the thin white gauze that is the gown that she wore. It was then covered in filth for slabs of soil had filled her nails. The soles of her feet were bleeding still -- she must have run barefooted across the stones. And probably tripped there. And smashed her head on a rock. No one knows. The trees wouldn't speak. The place was devoid of breath and movement, denied even of the rustling wind. There was no sound. She used to listen to the orchestra of a nearby stream and birds singing. She loved flowing water. And dancing foliage. The green of the leaves she loved the most. But where she finally perished was indeed a lifeless dusk. Even the trees were dead. Everywhere you looked it was dry and sterile. But it was still the earth. She lay there in eternal slumber, sturdy as she had always been, empathic to the emptiness of that vast expanse of mother nature with whom she had at last become one.

Everywhere you looked it was dry and sterile. But it was still the earth. It was the earth in its purest form, nothing in it that was not created by God. It was bare and dispossessed of vibrance, yet it was still beautiful.

i am afraid of frogs.

i am afraid of cockroaches.