It is not the Forest that Cries

"But you look at the sunrise, the Gulf of Naples, the sea, and you can't help feeling sad. And the most disgusting thing is that you really are sad!"

Crime and Punishment, part IV

In the night, the still surface of the lake mirrors the starless darkness above. Silently I walk, listening to the pattering of raindrops that assault my umbrella. A light rain on a light evening. Ripples that form as rainwater sink deep down into the lake remind me of a busy place far away, where shoulders touch, loud voices indistinct. Instead of the concrete beneath my feet, I think of the wet autumn leaves I have slipped on in an ageing red forest. 

Amidst the beauty of nature, the depth of the well bearing my sadness makes itself known. Is that the reason why I tend to look towards the sky and hope my tears recede? Then I begin to talk to myself, as if the trees are protecting my secret. The wild flowers bow as if weeping; dewdrops disappear into the soil. Taking each step without haste, crying without tears, only the soul of the forest takes pity on me, guiding me deeper into its heart. At that point, it seemed to me that only it was willing to share my burden.

I think that if I venture far enough, I might find a place to sleep. 

Closing my eyes, I imagine the season starting to change. Leaves are falling, and I am in a nest. Piling up, piling up, I'm now in a cocoon of fallen leaves. Nobody bothers to look for me because I am the one forgotten by all, missed by none. My tears, tinged with the acidity of reality, is the only substance capable of burning me. 

I scream into the night for you, but the nightingale by your window sings so sweetly that you only have ears for it. 

There, I would be cradled in the pity of nature, drowning in tears that burn in the infinite well of sadness that is excavated by a perfection I once grasped.