The psithurism of the autumn forest flutters as the madmen of the otherworld profit from global uncertainty. I drive the point of a walking stick into the ground and take a breath or two. Eyes gazing outward and around. The forest is wet and orange. The trunks of the trees a slick black and gray. An airplane glides slowly overhead, high up, a vapor trail in its wake. I wonder where all those people are going and why. Escape. I groan at the idea of a chaotic airport and glad that my feet are on the soft ground of the woods.

The woods. That quiet sanctuary. Leaves move like wind chimes. I move across the November blanket, a quilt of yellow and gold. And then the cold dystopian gong rises from the other world and the horror lands beyond. The sky seeps blood and ash. I’ll never feel better again. I’ll never wake with joy. The hope drained from my soul. Faith in humanity has become nothing but a stained, disgusting lie. It’s all about greed and hate and racism and a twisted god relationship. I can’t find peace in the future, but perhaps only in the other side of the light. I long to be a vagrant somewhere else, somewhere far away. A free vagrant would be better than being a crushed and caged creative and loving soul. This world must indeed be hell and the people all ignorant monsters.

By

Aaron Echoes August