Forest

You get tired of the same old places, the same old people. Then you enter that place where dreams occur, where fantasy meets fact, where heaven meets earth. No one else can appreciate that really, because it's different for everyone. Everyone else has their place of comfort and protection. Mine is the forest.
A walk in the forest is like meeting with old friends, communing in their company. Friends that shelter and protect their own. They beckon you to stay and rest under their beautiful veils, to sit and stay with them for a while. They whisper their joy as the wind rushes through their branches. They sing softly as the rain meets their outstretched arms. All is peace and comfort, beauty and radiance. I have realized that, compared to the forest, I live in a place of ugliness and despair. The forest is my real home. Maybe that is why I don't care for winter as much as I care for spring. Winter is when my friends sleep sleep and rest, when they recede into themselves and stand dark and tall against the cold. They seem to be just empty husks, but underneath the dead-looking shell is life that awaits for spring. They wait for their time to awake, and I await as well, waiting for when my friends will come back to me.