Echoes of the Forest

When I moved to the city, I saw echoes of the forest everywhere I looked: in the canopy of the skyscrapers, in the savageness of the people. As comforting as those echoes are, it’s not the same as being back there. The longer I stay here, the louder they call to me, urging me to go back. The forest has a hold on me and won’t let go. My parents wanted me to see the city and try to make something of myself, but I don’t know if that’s what this is. My apartment is nice enough; I’ve been told the view of the city is quite breathtaking, but it’s nothing compared to the view of the forest from the top of a mountain. My job is mind-numbing. I am just another ant running around holding the weight of the company on my back so the wolves at the top can make their wallets a little fatter. The office is walking distance from my place at least - I couldn’t bear to drive, to take part in the slow murder of this planet. My head is pounding just thinking about it all. I shake my head, try to shake out the thoughts that never seem to stop. This is a new problem for me, but I guess with civilization comes the anxiety that pokes and prods and rips holes in your sense of self. I roll over and stretch out, waiting for the shrill ring of my alarm. It goes off and I get up to start another day. I shower and get dressed as I always do. I grab a muffin to go and lock the door behind me. I hate that I have to lock the door here, that I can’t trust anyone in this place. The elevator is like a coffin and sometimes I wish it wouldn’t open its doors, but it does and I step out into the lobby. I shuffle past the reception in a daze, unnoticed by the woman who sits by the welcome sign and never says hello. To be fair though, I’ve never said hello to her either. The people here don’t talk, not really. The only time they do is when they want something from you. I think the trees back home know me better than anyone here ever will. I push through the door and am hit by the roar of the busy street. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the discordance of endless movement. Busses, cars, people, all honking and screaming at once; it makes my head spin. I try to think of home as I walk down the street, of the birds singing and the wind rustling through the leaves of a thousand trees. If I just look at the ground and think of home, I can block it all out. I’m watching my shiny shoes smack against the pavement and see a flower that’s been crushed by the steps of a hundred people walking past. No one sees it, no one cares. I can tell it was once a sunny yellow flower in full bloom, but this city has crushed all the colour out of it. I bend down to rescue it and someone walks right into me, knocking me onto the road. I hear the truck horn blaring, the tires screeching.

I open my eyes to a cloudless cerulean sky. I feel a tickle against my leg and when I look down at it, I realise I’m lying in a field of tall grass. The wind blows and it wraps around me in an embrace, welcoming me home. The air smells of rain but the ground is dry and charged with the electricity of a storm still to come. I sit up and see a tall tree made gold by the sunlight. It looks like it dropped all its leaves for winter, but the breeze is as warm as the sun against my skin. I get up and walk over to it, brush my fingers over the papery bark. Birds sing and the wind rustles the leaves of a thousand trees that aren't there. I remember the horn and the screech of tires and think that maybe this is what heaven looks like. I turn my face to the sun and smile. I’m finally home.