What Emerges Beneath the Ferns
Folded light, like breath beneath soil. Buried gestures waiting to rise.
What emerges from shadow is not always sinister—sometimes, it’s memory returning in a different form. Nymphs and Satyrs, long dismissed as myth, returned beside plants and precious stones—symbols of something both buried and growing. The natural world does not forget. It archives beauty and mischief alike. Every root and vein, every shimmer of opal in the soil, carried the imprint of past revelries. As human language grew brittle, their forms endured — not by speaking, but by gesturing. They whispered through gesture, through leaf tilt and and the clatter of hooves, unfolding a truth that spoke without speech.
The veil lifted briefly. Ferns curled in acknowledgement. Quartz shimmered underground, amplifying the silence around it. It shimmered not to be seen, but to remember. They came not from hiding, but from waiting.
And sometimes, something human stirred beneath that silence. Goracio once wrote:
Being Seen
I fell once — not loudly, not into arms. The ferns knew, but kept their silence.
There was no saving, only gaze — steady, unhurried, like dusk watching itself fade.
In the absence of response, I found grace. Not in healing, but in being witnessed.
Love is the edge, where language forgets itself, and the body speaks by vanishing.
To be seen is not to be held. It is to exist, even when you do not arrive.
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