The trees around me were communicating via some hidden informational network. A floral Wi-Fi, sending messages through the treesearly unofficial springtime sunlight; under the earth, with fungus-mail. By pollen and chemicals. I knew they felt me there, staring at their gnarled winter-nakedness, as I wandered aimlessly through the wood to escape from two-legged beasts. The trees were talking – I could hear their indecipherable whispers in the faint breeze, in the pounding of sunlight into my irises. Trees were always communicating through a network that spun from coast to coast. Faint ripples underneath our feet. A sneeze of a message. They told each other of dangers, of food, of their own myths.
I was under no impression that they were in any way loving towards me. To these spirits, even my creepiest saunter must seem as annoying a burst of energy around them as a horsefly, as threatening as a malaria carrying mosquito.
We look to the stars for the alien, never wondering at what is right in front of our faces and squashed under our feet.
As yet another jogger passed me by, avoiding eye contact in fear of becoming trapped by the sinister machinations of someone like me. A treadmill life clothed in fluorescent Spandex, he observed nothing around him. Just pumped his knees and elbows like the well-trained worker bee that he was. Humanity now spends its life staring into screens, to escape from the modern horror of boredom, when it used to gaze outside itself and wonder at the dancing dust motes caught in the sun and the sky, the colour of the most beautiful angel’s blue eyes.
I looked around me at the huge piles of dead trees, cut down to make our precious books and furniture and cardboard boxes, and part of me wished that the sun would strike us all blind.


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