In the forest where none may pass but you, your bones have been drained of their sunlight. You journey into dusky voices; they call your name, and point the path to follow. Instinctively you know you must ripple like a memory through your own veins, a small, barely perceptible quiver, moving through the convoluted darkness alone. Moments shy away from you now, receding like an ever-shrinking spine, and you must quickly pay homage to your body, the vessel of you, so leaden with your blessings and your shortcomings, miraculously afloat after endless storms. As gently as liquid you pour into your feet, saluting them for resolutely walking the decades. In the moment you pass through them they are warm, pulsating like dance; then you are gone and the toes separate like strangers, cold and indifferent, oblivious to your presence. You move on, aghast, unable to look back.
You are a throb in your ankles now, twitching, rising, until you are clutching at your slippery knees. You pause with them a moment to rekindle the hours knelt in prayer. Soon you are on your way, humming through your brittle joints, momentarily reminiscing days that boasted limbs with the waxy-softness of saplings. You whisk through your loins now, with the rush of a stallion that has no need to pause at this place anymore. There is no longer a water trough here, and the memory is lost of the fruit you bore long ago, fruit that is now as quickly shrivelling as you are.
Next you hover at the rim of your stomach, an angry whirlpool that sucks you into its gurgling depths. Up you paddle, faster, faster, resurfacing, eager to be free from its endless mutterings. You can hear your heartbeat now, the echo of its pebbles reverberating in some distant well—plop, plop, plop. You undulate towards it, tired of the heavy darkness of being, seeking the light—and the lightness. It is hard to face your heart this moment, for it knows too much about you, has harboured your demons and your angels. You know when you leave it behind all that will be left will be of lightning swiftness, a hint of an eye-blink and no more. You kiss, abrupt as doubtful lovers, and move on; the voices are beckoning you to hasten.
Into your chest you spin at full force. You feel the rush of purpose now, propelled by the urgency of the moment, but nipped by a tugging fear; what lies ahead? Whatever it may be, there is no time to contemplate on past or present or future. The voices are hushed now and your body parts are stilled. All that is left as you gasp into your throat is trembling silence; your mouth solemnly opens to release you to an unspoken otherness. You have made your circular journey, a journey which began long before you did, and leads you home, the solitary traveller of your own night, in a forest that bears only your name.