(From Sothiaco´s article. Español aquí.)
The forest was always there. Always, under my bare feet, keeping me away from the deadly sun, moisturizing my body, my skin, my thoughts. My mind was under its intimate fresh humid gloom. My mind and my eyes never needed more than its soft light from above the tree tops.
I am learning myself to seat in the moss and to root with the soil, gaining my place, humble in my sincere plea. So clumsy still to show my truly respect, feeding with patience my anxiety and my nostalgy.
The dew blesses my thighs and hips, legs and feet. I let them stopping being part of me and beginning to be my connection with the vibrant earth beneath me.
And my spine then grows from my, now, living hips. I stop breathing artificially. Oxygen enters through all my conscious skin and my lungs exist beyond my ribs and my chest.
Open eyes, staring to my equals around me, identifying my mind dissolving itself into them.
My nape exploding in pleasure and joy, so is my remaining physical gross self. But also that is beautiful. Animal and beast are always welcome among trees and woods. Wisdom is not a bounded concept in the forest; it is the forest.
This is my only possible legacy to the world. My redemption by my surrender. Nothing else is of this incommensurable value. Nothing else but this.
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