Going Back to the Woods

Which way to go? He turned his face away from the world that he had thought he wanted, turned away from the bright lights and everyone pretending they remembered his name. He headed back down the road to the woods, back where he had come from. He had thought, because he could never remember the names of the plants and that all the birds looked and sounded alike to him, that he was not meant for the quiet woods. He thought he would find his true home amongst the shouting crowds and busy places of the city. A place where he believed he could shout just as loud - if not louder - than all the others.

After all, he knew he did have a bit of a knack for words and putting them in interesting ways; a skill he had perfected on his long walks through the wood, using his solitude to construct elaborate edifices of language that he was sure would stop those on the busy streets in their tracks and make them stand back to admire what he had constructed using those simple everyday tools.

It was not to be though. It seemed that most of what he constructed they just ignored, walked on by, in a hurry to get to something much brighter, shiny and loud flashing away like a beacon on the opposite corner to where he stood, carving his elaborate structures out of the words he found left unused on the street.

He had always loved the words and what could be built out of them, but it seemed the frantic people of the busy city had no time for mere ordinary words when there was the bright and shiny and noisy to see, to hear, to take them away from themselves and the words that only made them think too much.

So, he packed his bag and moved back to the quiet woods where he could sit by the stream and carve shapes out of the words just for himself, and – sometimes - the occasional traveller who passed by, who also had the time to sit and think by the slow stream.