chungsi  

welcome

can you hear the whispers of the past brought up by the mists of the giants?

their roots reach into the layers of the world's memories, drink it up, breathe it out, as the morning draws near.

distant dreams fog together – figures and scenes emerge in blurs. we walk among the dreamers and the history of what once was, and is.

then the sun breaks through, the day is barely waking, the light gives form even to those dreams hidden in the shadows. The world shifts and begins to rise, with a rustling and whispering and singing.

situated. grounded. feet firmly set, firmly aware, firmly tingling with the touch of earth.

you seep into the soil, into the loam and the worms and the rich memories of life; and the world seeps into your bones, into you blood and your breath and your quick pulse towards death. what is this absurdity?

roots reach deep into the universe, and your body is absorbed into its vastness. the ground gives way and gravity is reversed – you fall towards the sky.

dragons rise from the forest
  languid and sleepy and formless
the forest's breath lifts them
  to join a stream at the canopy
where the breathing of beast and branch
  become gust of blue-bound life

the wind catches them up, and they tumble towards the sky. with their coats stuffed full of promises and tiny wings, they rise on the updraft of a billion sighs.

the forest echoes the cries of the birds — body-less voices speak to those who remain. breathing is hushed, the fog grows thicker.

for the forest that has fallen asleep, the world is a blur and a breath, and the slumber has just begun. the people have gone away now, too prideful to admit their unknowing, too prideful to undertsand.

the trees keep their own time, to the deep drum of their roots. and slowly, surely, seedlings are sprouting at the edges of this long dream.

there are songs being woven within each person—threaded into our bones, wound around our limbs, embroidered onto our skin. we breathe in the world's tunes and breathe out a bar of rest. we hear the world in chorus, ablaze and in passion.

silent and in anticipation—

then someone, something, inhales and sways forward, the symphony continues and we rush to follow along.

we're pulled forward by a rolling momentum, the threads are being spun, the songs are bing sung.

the world is in motion.

there is no path into the forest—if you see one, it is one travelled by many and not worth your time. you are only called, your name whispered by wandering winds, your heart beckoned by the billowing braches.

a wind flows out of this stand, swirls around, back in, and out once more. the breath of the standing people.