You wake up. You don’t know how long you've been there. You feel the moisture on your skin, the weight of the earth under your body. The moss, soft yet firm, holds you. It is a silent embrace, but also a reminder: you are home, and that home is the earth itself.

Open your eyes. The forest encircles you, dense and alive. You hear the rain falling, each drop striking with almost ritual precision. Do you feel it? That echo within you. A connection you forgot long ago. Because you lived running, escaping, filling yourself with noise. But here, in this corner of the world, silence speaks. And it tells you something you already knew: there is no separation. You are this, and this is you.

Look closely. What brought you to this place? Was it exhaustion? The desire to escape? Or simply the calling? Because something inside you knew that you had to return. And now you are here, surrendered, letting yourself fall upon the skin of the earth, as if it could heal you. And perhaps it can.

It’s curious, isn’t it? We spend our lives moving away from what we are, building walls, seeking roofs. And here you are, with nothing, bare-skinned, wearing a dress of leaves, understanding what has always been true: you were never a visitor. You were always a part.

And now I ask you: What happens when you stop running? What happens when you start to listen again? When you surrender to the forest, to the moss, to the rain. To yourself.