Faces

The forest has been filled with emotions, with every single soul passing by with a different one. One tree had the face of a man who’d bottled up his sadness for years on end, finally starting to let it all out, but being oblivious to his actions and instead letting it flood out like a crystal-clear waterfall, tumbling hundreds and hundreds of metres downwards. Another had a surface rough to the touch; the skin of an angry man, who’d furrowed his brow too many times to count, making the wrinkles in his forehead stick out like a black woman in China, as they all coat themselves in many layers of porcelain make-up, burying their beautiful faces just like they do to their souls.  I’ve wandered down the route of the forest many times before, not really meaning to, but doing so without my own mind present. But, even though my mind might not be, my soul always is, trying to escape the clutches of the beautiful forest, trying to not become one of them. One of the mindless trees that stand tall through all seasons, blending in with the rest, not being noticed. I can’t possibly end up one of them. I stand out from the crowed 24/7. I shall not end up a boring old tree with winding branches, able to wrap around someone’s neck and kill them in seconds. I will never become one in a million years. But what about after that? What about when it has been one million years from right this second? Will my soul swoop down from the skies and enter a soulless tree, without any emotions and stay there forever?  No. I cannot end up the same as hundreds of thousands of people. Of souls without a body, of bodies without a soul. Getting lost in the endless forest, winding past all of the tall trees with their chests puffed out is one thing, but being one of those tall trees with their chests puffed out, watching people getting lost is another. The worse option out of the two. Wandering on, stopping staring at the emotion-filled trees is almost impossible, I have to tear my eyes away from the bark, crying for help after years and years of sobbing inside the hardening wood, unable to escape from the unforgiving, labyrinthine paths of the forest.  Weaving in and out between the trees, I stare blankly at the rest of the faces, engraved in the crust of the wood. You can’t really blame me though; I loved listening to stories when I was younger, and each and every one of those faces tell their own little story. That’s why I loved listening to songs, too; the best lyrics in a song tell the best story, and mean the most to you. I don’t like the silence, and right now, it is far too quiet for my own personal liking. The only sounds heard are the quiet wails of the people trapped inside the trees.