A Reality Beyond Imagination

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Recommended: Importance of silence

The trees’ whistling had, once again, gotten to me. Their sheer, chilling voices whispering vociferously across the vicinity in a manner much like of an alpha wolf’s calling to its pack, without the subtle hints of animal to it. I quietly complained to myself under a soft breath; the disruptive commotion the trees manually forced upon nature’s ground created a perturbation that had in a moment abruptly corrupted my mind. It seemed I lacked the proper focus in these noisy surroundings. I slumped, giving out a sigh. As much as I enjoyed nature, the conversations that rapidly developed from the vegetation were simply distractions that veered me from what I was solely focused on primarily: taking a negligent walk in the woods.
At that point, the dancing leafy-greens shared a mutual laugh, bellowing triumphantly at a human presence. I assumed it was mine, as I never dreamt of any other persons taking residence near my family, or much less any other being roaming the same wooded areas as I. It was never the case, and wasn’t going to be anytime soon. At least, that’s what I personally deliberated.
The woods seemed at peace without any stifles to have disturbed the stillness of things. The scenery to me was always breathtaking and exquisite; as I recalled taking on walks with my darling kitty along the paths skirted with lush green grass, the fields of sunset orange and pink poppies would have soon become perceptibly apparent in our view as they openly dotted the vast land. Their vibrant colors would bemuse both Mr. Midnight and me. It wasn’t an illusion nor was it of our imagination. The captured views that we absorbed and engulfed in the back of our heads was surely real, and was retained ever since we first laid our eyes...

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...oulless baby heads captured my attention, as the trees drooled of the same blood. My heart was in my throat. I was empty of thoughts and words to say.
Meandering even further into the hellish world, the oak trees began to deteriorate of the natural bodies in which they bore. Their forms morphed into soaring swiveling, distorted branches bare of the veined leaves. Shadows of the branching, barren bodies of the forest were cast over me. Mr. Midnight silently stalked by my side; his reassuring meows at random times comforted me. At one point, the outline of rope came into my line of sight. Hung from the top of a rotting, blackened tree, there appeared to be a tire tied at the end of it. The tire swing swayed side-to-side like the outer mechanisms of a metronome. I grinned to myself, identifying it as the exact tire that hung from an oak in front of my house.

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