The Shades of Brown and Green
Thick nets of green, tangled together. If you put your feet in, they might never come back up. Murky, brown waters that seem clear on the surface, but fall deeper than you’ve ever seen. Deep, looming brown oaks surround you. The wet and gloomy mud reaches for your foot, begging for attention. The forces are against you here, but all they want is love and care. You continue on, crunching the dying leaves on the ground and crushing new and fresh, brown mushrooms. You don’t see the little garden snakes lying, waiting in the underbrush. Their brown scales blend with the forest floor, but reflect blinding sunlight. They wait for the little field mice to venture too far away from home or to come back from a meal. They can’t see the snakes, either. Lucky you. They won’t be able to harm you. So you pass by without batting an eye in your big and clunky brown boots. The bears are just like your shoes. Big and awkward, they are. Destructive of unnoticeable things, too. They growl and lunge, hoping to get you away. Did you ever really think of the reality of things dying? Red, soupy mixtures spill out as distasteful smells begin to occur. Everything relaxes as you go limp. Eventually, the same moss and mushrooms that you crushed will grow on your body and turn you to nothing. A brown lump to join the others. Maybe you will become one of the things that go bump in the night? Or maybe that little brown bird will consume the very same eyes that were laid on it? It doesn’t matter at all. Nothing matters anymore when you die and turn to mulch or ashes. Why would you care what smooth, tarnished brown coffin you get if it’s just going to collapse and give you away to the worms? Will you be there watching in pain? Will you feel yourself withering away to nothing? Will people care anymore that you’ve become like the dirt under their feet or the trees they killed? What difference does it make, honestly? The shades of brown are not to be messed with. It’s best you keep walking down your forest path before you become engulfed in muck and lose those bown, clunky boots. This forest doesn’t want you to return to your ancestor’s home. You’ve betrayed it, and now you must return from whence you came. Go back to where the sun shines a bright scheme of colors, and the natural brown is killed off. Go to the fake vines and frogs kept in crates as if they didn’t have a brain. Live where brown symbolizes chocolate or feces. Don’t return, for the sky grows dark. The trees beckon for you to stay, but don’t listen to their feeble attempts to disable you from running. Their long fingers scratch at your face, but don’t let that fill you with fright. Get out, and do tell others not to venture in. Don’t create a story to make them curious, make them bored. Interest them in something else. But don’t venture into the forest full of shades of browns and green.