The Dark forest Absorbs Socrates and His Time

 The Dark forest Absorbs Socrates and His Time

the house of twigs Ina Gjata guest author the house of twigs
There are days when this Earth breathes louder. Days when The Sun, sets on the East. O’clock days. Strange days. Days when structure our braids of golden hair and let go of lost loves setting with the sun. Beasts are never afraid of this call of the Jungle, and again nor afraid of love or being loved as the wheel spins, forwards, from the left to the right.
Carefully I start breathing. I see the world breaking its previous circles. It was only an illusion made by the lens of perception, all the built civilization since it was never what they called it to be. When we first came to Earth, it looked so marvelous we both forgot about the predator sitting outside the gates.
You and I were in love with the forest.
And… I forgot I was not in love with you any longer, therefore I couldn’t expect you to show me, love. But since the predator led by our unconscious numbed and walled the forest it all became chaotic.
My ways were no longer filled with fairness and justice but by the predator ways. And the predator wants to kill the forest. However even walled and metalized it is a forest, numbed but still, a forest, and its laws are ready to be enforced. Even the predator meets its predator who will numb him and extinguish him. Its destiny.
But let’s remember how much you and I loved the forest. We loved this Earth breath and her alive body. It was strange in the morning and strange in the dark but we learned her ways superficially.
On the road and through the predator works against us you forgot me, you forgot the same breath we exchanged with the Earth, the same breath returning to hunt us in the back of our mind and through the substances of time breaking and rebuilding.
I denied you and you denied me and the overall of it all made me think it was a love story.
Indeed it never was. It was only a story of a Goddess taking her crown back, her time, and her territory. As taking care of you I forgot your birdly nature. I forgot it had ceased to be a love story the moment we fell, or many insubstantial times ago. I breathe the Earth and I release all the worry I have for the bird’s first flight. You must fly.
Tables hold many memories, memories of the unbroken, memories of the unburned, memories of what hasn’t been. Memories of you and me being in love without the sin.
Branches and dry soil, inside this autumn nights. How many creatures walk the dry night?
How many eyes got burned by their impotence?
I don’t know. But they fall and they keep falling. They never saw it coming.
A tale with an end. As a previously called death.
As the head of the burned falling.
Plato’s Republic and his Socrates lessons are not much heard here deep in the jungles and forests. They have not much meaning here, or do they?
Silently Dawn meets Dawn and the warrior meets maiden. But the white Maiden has become The Huntress, or was she always the Huntress?
Rising Sun meets rising Sun, Socrates’ words on hate and doubt directed to the old Gods still have not much meaning, or did they ever have?
Braid after Braid the golden hair is structured from the Sun to the Earth. Maidens braid and they sing their songs and prayers and love aspirations and war motives as well to the Old Gods, and the words of Socrates complaining outside the dark forests still have no meaning, they fall into deaf ears.
Maidens braid their dark hair as the night braids itself… Are they an analogy?
Outside the complaints of an old man, and ideals of enchantment, the steps of the Queen of the Dark forest are felt. As heartbeats of this Earth itself. The forest has no ideals, but a lot of Truth naked as it is and sharp as the beast’s claws.
The Dark Moon rises and its creatures exchange stories, still waiting for the Queen of the Dark Forest to come.
She must be as sharp as an arrow and with claws as giant as the claws of the Dragon. The creaturas of the dark forest whispered.
She must be as strong as the Moon and beautiful as the Sun… and unmerciful as the all those beast who spit on false words written out of complaint in warm rooms of a numbed part of the forest. Blood asks blood you see, but Socrates spits on the Genesis, writing tales of the numbed as his walled rooms ran out of Beauty and Truth.
Democracy isn’t a very popular opinion here in the dark forest, but justice and the Old Gods are. Another strike of air is heard. Is it her?
Is she coming? Is it her time yet?
Does she know of Socrates and Plato’s works on mortal equality?
She must know.
As Socrates falls and dies the black forest absorbs him.
As it absorbs Plato and all mortality.
One can’t fight the darkness of the night, can he?
One can’t walk on the laws of the Old Gods and spit on them. The city is the forest too. Numbed but still the forest and we are on an absorbing part of the universe, so one never knows when he is going to get absorbed by the Earth.
The Old Gods do not write tales of enchantment, just laws as Life and Death and Love, and as mortals get recycled by the dark forest, its dead exchange stories.
Great is the tragedy of sin indeed and enchantment has washed out many Moons ago.

(Main image credits w/ approval: Property of Enys Guerrero, on DevianArt called: The Queen of the Dark Forest)
This submission is by guest author Ina Gjata
Ina Gjata is a Moon lover, journalist, art critic, painter, life lover. Passionate about the wild feminine and wild creatures. She doesn’t do well with system rules, regulations, and lies. A born rebel being, she believes real truth is inside us all and that writing is a piece of the great truth, meant to be told, and manifested.


This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Creative Commons License
This work by The House of Twigs / Author of Article is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.