The Forest Knows More Then It Tells

Every discovery felt less like finding and more like arriving. I'm beginning to suspect the investigation was never mine. I was simply the first person willing to write it down.

And started asking why does it know i'm here? my notes have become remarkably thorough. They document everything except the precise moment i ceased to be the observer.

Some mysteries do not hide because they are difficult. They hide because they are patient and patience, i've discovered, is a far more terrifying intelligence than malice has ever been.

Years later, i've revised only one conclusion: the most dangerous assumption a scholar can make is believing that every question wants to be answered.

I asked the wrong question. The silence that followed felt less like absence and more like something considering whether I deserved an answer. I'm beginning to suspect the universe keeps office hours and i've been arriving far too often.

I presented my findings to the dark. It offered no criticism. No applause. Only silence the kind that implies my conclusions were already expected.

I began with a hypothesis. The universe responded with evidence. none of it supported my conclusions. All of it supported my involvement. I've revised the paper six times. The results remain uncomfortably consistent.

Before the symbols. Before i realized that some discoveries don't reveal the truth they replace it. If there was ever a control group, i'm no longer part of it.

If i am honest, i cannot determine whether i chose this line of research or whether the research quietly chose me long before i believed the decision was mine. The consent form was never offered. Only the results.

The library closed hours ago. The lights went out. The doors locked. Yet I feel as though someone is watching me. The pages keeps turning on their own. Probably should have stay at the shack and work in the lab. Too late now.

Every warning i've uncovered has been dismissed for the same reason no reliable source. Which would be a convincing argument if reliable sources had a better survival rate.

They asked how i reached my conclusion. I told them the truth. The room became uncomfortably quiet. I passed. They burned my notes.

Every box i open contains someone else's obsession. The disturbing part is recognizing my own handwriting among it.

Return borrowed books. Keep your voice down. Do not write in the margins. If a book opens to the same page every time, leave.

I no longer look for evidence that i'm right. I look for evidence that i'm wrong. The silence has become increasingly uncooperative.

I thought i was organizing my research. Then i realized the index had alphabetized my fears before i had names for them.

If you must leave a record, leave it incomplete. The missing page may be the only kindness you ever offer the person who comes after you.