The Glass and the Clearing

A boy lay quietly in his bed. Out of the window he spots the pathway to the forest. He can see the trail clear it's way through the entrance of the swarm of trees. Beyond that - who knows? There will be a trail, but what's past the entry way is shrouded in mystery to him. All that he can see is a window, then a clearing, then countless trees as far as the sky falls. In the forest there are mysteries yet to be solved. 

The boy sits up quietly in his bed. He gives his body a moment to conform to the vertigo. Sick - maybe not yet - but quite possibly soon. Nevermind. What could be the difference between being sick here or there? The boy shrugged off his nonsense. It's time to be human. The forest calls the boy, softly, but unyielding. There are wonders to be found out here.

The boy takes his pack and places it on the stiff bed. He fills it with books, snacks, two more gowns - the necessities. He puts a baseball cap over his hairless head. Catching himself in the mirror, he thinks. Why is this a shame? Why is this a mark of what I'm worth? A constant reminder of loss? A focal point of pity? Too many have died in this room before me. How many others has the forest called since the inception of this hospital? The draw is irresistable. Uncorruptable. Who am I not to hear it's song? He leaves the cap on the bed; his head bare as the song guiding him. 

The boy laces up his shoes tight. He stands before the entrance to the forest afraid. Behind him lay a clearing, then glass, and a warm bed. Behind him there was certainty. The kind of certainty doctors catagorize in stages. There was family, friends, pets, television programs, girls... No matter. The boy had a job to do. He had a duty not to die within confines. He wasn't quite at that stage yet. He could learn how to track animals. He could build a crude shelter, then a better one with time and care. The boy could truly live and die the way he wanted to. Behind him there was only ghosts. He stepped into the forest. 

What we feel in nature is naked. A stark, violent depiction of who we are - what we're made of. The boy knew this. He knew that adventure was ugly to the modern ideal of happiness. He knew that he would never be happy again had he chose to stay and die. But this - this was promise. At least, it was new. There were plants, trees, animals he had never seen in person before. These were the kinds of things poor people read about in books, and rich people went out and tasted. The boy did not know uncertainty anymore. He only knew that he would last as long as he could, and no longer. He would follow the trail for miles, then somewhere deep down, he would take a left. He would walk because he could. He would traverse the depths and never emerge again. The boy knew what freedom was. The forest called with miles to go. And the boy was enveloped back into the world which created him.