Between Two Worlds

I stand barefoot on the cold moss, the forest breathing around me, each leaf a whisper, each tree a silent witness to my thoughts. The earth beneath me is alive, its pulse steady, unhurried, a rhythm so pure it fills the spaces the city forgot to take care of. But then, a hum cuts through the stillness— a distant echo, the relentless thrum of engines and voices screaming for attention. A reminder that somewhere, beyond these trees, there’s a world spinning in a hurried dance I’ve long since abandoned. I close my eyes and breathe deeper, try to swallow the sounds of traffic, but they press against my temples, a rigmarole of obligations, a grind of concrete, a cycle of “must” and “have to” that never stops. The city’s breath is shallow, always gasping for more, more time, more money, more of whatever keeps the gears turning. The wind brushes my cheek, soft, as if to say, Let go, but the city still clings to me, its weight in my chest, its urgency a rope pulling me back, back to the madness. I open my eyes again. The trees are still here, the sky still vast, and yet the city’s tug is a shadow that follows me like a ghost. I am caught between two worlds— one rooted in silence, the other a never-ending, breathless race. And still, the forest waits. It doesn’t ask for my return, it simply is, unaffected by the rigmarole, its rhythm unchanged whether I stay or go.