Lights at the Bottom of the River
There are lights at the bottom of the river. You can see them if you peer down into the water. They look like wobbly lines, iridescent, blue, and silver. They’re not supposed to be there. We’re not supposed to be there.
There’s a secret place, in the Ocean, a gateway to the heart of the world. The water is calm, the deepest blue color. Not many can live there, and that’s why they are our realm. Our families have gathered in this deep blue sea for millennia, coming back from faraway lands, bringing stories of faraway waters. We tell those stories when we die, passing them on to the future generations. Maps are woven into those stories, the directions that our children use to navigate the currents of this world.
I Remember When...
They had disappeared. I don’t remember when it exactly happened. I just know that one day, I realized they weren’t there anymore. The world had become more silent, less colorful. The flowers didn’t fly like they used to, while the stars didn’t come down at night to brighten the countryside. When it rained, the snails didn’t invade the roads to the point that I couldn’t walk out of the house without hearing a crunch underfoot. The lizards had stopped lazing under the sun, on those hot summer days. They just weren’t there anymore, and that’s when I left.
The Lake Told Me...
It stands by the edge of the water, a strange construction. It seems to have eyes, black like the night. At times, when the sun shines on the water, I can see inside that improbable skull. It has changed over time. It seems to be peeling, slowly disintegrating, but still standing, always standing. I have asked the Lake, my lovely immense home, what is it, this odd thing that doesn’t look like anything else I’ve seen. It might have been plopped there, placed on the earth by an alien god, and then forgotten.
I still have a hard time believing the Lake’s story, but who am I to judge. This Lake has been here for much longer than I have, and I have been here a long time. Water carries many memories. Sometimes, the memories come from far away, brought by rain and snow, while others are brought in by the rivers and streams that trickle down from the mountains or originate in faraway valleys. Most of the memories, however, are stored right here, in the soil, in the roots of the plants that grow under the surface or along the banks. The Lake knows, the Lake remembers, the water flows, but the memories stay.
Dance With Me
Have you ever heard the giants breathe?
I think I have. I heard them breathe in the large rivers that meander down the peaks towards the valleys. I heard them breathe on the mountainsides, the trees pillars of thoughtful silence. I heard them breathe in the lakes, where the hush is so deep you can listen to your own heart beating. This is where the story begins, on a winter day. A day like many others, in which I decided to go and listen to the slumbering world of the mountains I call home.
When We Became Trees
We hadn’t planned to stop running or abandon our addiction to over-consumption and the over-exploitation of our planet’s resources. We thought we had just found a more efficient way to be human. We didn’t have any more space for agriculture, or the time to eat and keep on feeding an ever-growing population. Our industries needed more space to expand, and we needed a more-efficient-kind of human. A human being that wouldn’t have to depend on meals and other species to survive. A human being that could keep on working as long as the sun was up, harvesting nutrients directly from the soil.