Traipse into the bosom of the wood. I used to come here when I was a little girl. Back when the world seemed different. When everything seemed to live in a certain perfect harmony.
I came to the one place I've always been able to go to find solace, but now I find everything but. I sought some sort of consolation, but there was none. The air is different, the wood has changed.
The world has changed.
I have changed.
I used to come quite a bit to think, to ponder, to get away and just breathe. I have always found what I was looking for, peace, clarity, but the moment I stepped into the grove, I only found discord, sadness, anger. What's happening to me? They speak more and more each day and I can't stop them. Not even the flood of the storm can drown them out.
Them out.
I can't help but to laugh. I'm finally convinced the voices are not my own. How could they be? I listen to them, quiet, distinctive, whispering back and forth in my head. I'm not sure if they're trying to tell me something - and I try to understand them - but they speak a foreign tongue. They started nothing more than subtle wisps, almost like a breeze though the autumn leaves, but as the days pass, they grow stronger, louder, like a harsh wind signaling the approach of a troubled seas.
They grow violent.
That's not even the worst of it. I tremble as I write to you, and god, how cold I am.
So, so cold.
I've lit this fire, but still shake as I write. It's not the night's chill, it's not even my drenched cloak. I can't find words to describe this feeling. I'm frozen on the inside, hollow, as if my own soul has left me dead to the sanctuary of warmth. The rain continues to pound against my makeshift tent. It doesn't exhibit any sign of ceasing either, but honestly, I don't mind. If anything, it helps tone them down some. Maybe I'll get a bit of sleep tonight. I'm going to try.
Then again, what's one more sleepless night. Maybe exhaustion will kill me.
Maybe I am some witch and deserve to be burned alive.
Or maybe it's they who deserve to burn . . .