Ever tried running in the rain? Keep running and your body should generate sufficient heat to keep you warm. Stop and the blistering cold takes a bite into your bones.
The canopy is thick. The light cannot trickle down to the ground. Every turn takes you to the same spot, every corner resembles the last. Rows and rows of vegetation stretch endlessly around you, shrinking as they approach the horizon of your vision. You don't have a compass, you cannot find the north. The chill gets to you, your hands are cold and clammy. Weariness weighs your body down and nails your feet to the undergrowth. You are a fungus, you are a fallen tree. Bacteria relish in your decay, they multiply while you lie immobolised.
As your eyes begin to shut, you hear an alluring voice that says, come and lock yourself in during this writer's block. Wither in the winter, that you may bloom again in spring.
Your ink will thaw in spring and maybe you'll find joy in the woods again.
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