Tales of a Shroudling

reblog this if your blog is a safe space on april fools and won’t have any jumpers, screamers, or anything scary or anxiety inducing

i love you green. i love you forests. i love you smell of damp earth. i love you feeling before the storm breaks. i love you moss. i love you rivers. i love you streams. i love you thunderstorms. i love you sunlight shining through leaves.

Fictional men who have the "it's ok to murder but it's never ok to disrespect your wife" energy >>>>

Constantly mumbling, talking, speaking, murmuring, announcing. But not thinking.

and the forest mumbles, the bubbling miss-match crosstalk of the water over  river-bed. and the forest speaks, chitter-pause-chirp, call and response in the branches. and the forest announces, aged trunks letting out groans of still-here, reminding their saplings amongst whose roots they play. but the forest does not think. it does not plan. it is blank as the nightsky, pathless as the unstirred undergrowth at its feet. the forest sings with all its lungs, and it does not wonder about the song.