Funky

 There is no freedom in the forest fall, as we all return to the soil to be reborn, below the sea of mist in the sunken dirt, we all fall before the truest form of rejuvenation, destruction. 

 There could be many more ways to absorb us, if only that was the idea behind it or a reason before it, yet we simply fall, and we watch the sky turn us theirs, as it is the wind who carries us and who tenderly wafted us all our lives, rocking our sticks and then making us fall, this fall, this falling sensation felt is overexposing, as a new feather untrapped and undisturbed by the wind who carefully places us in the soil, as we watch the tree whiter a little and toughen up for the cold that arrives, this is a sensational occasion to remember our position as the nerves, the mind and the body, yet not all of it, only we are the limbs for the heart of the forest, the trees whose roots fed the entire rooted garden that is this forest, flowers rarely ever grow, the floral fauna in this garden is not blooming as much as it should, there's not enough for all of us, and the whales named trees are taking all the dirt minerals to themselves, yet fail at keeping us. 

 They fail at keeping us alive, stretching our life, we are disposed with the change of wind, and we change too with the change of life, we were plants until we were not anymore, fell directly under the fog above that uncertain cloud of dirt. Lifeless and still conscious, this is what being dead feels like, eternally uncomfortable and collecting dust, being unmobile, striking the ground as less than a feather, less than a leaf, more like a corpse, for those fungi that see a feast. 

 The fungi took us by surprise the first time, then the second one, then the third one, and we never found a way to react other than accept it and respect the decision, we slowly were overtaken in death, eons passing by in the glimpse of that instant we touch the ground. 

 Then we are part of it, and it is not like the tree, it is not a red of roots who swim underneath hidden in the below. It feels like being part of it, of everything around you, it feels like being the own wind who rocks the leaves above us, it's like being the mist that replaces the convent of this forest, it's like being the very same tiled segment of land we were attributed but in another scale. As a giant in a land of mere plants, we are now growing without end, without final destination, both the slave and the master, spreading and generating, being alive and dead, being a plant but also, not it. We are not leaves anymore during this fall, we are all one, unionized under the hot swift sun and breached together into spore bridges in this waterfall of hazen springs towards east. It is this? what being God feels like? Dead and undead? Alive and down? Everywhere at nowhere? Immortal and physical? There's no end to what I can think now, therefore, I'll think of this forest forever, and learn it all. All to say at the end, if there is a spot where you can free yourself from the cycle, if we can now help those high above green still, to come down and join.
 To experience Godhood with us.