I remember a dark path cutting through a steep slope between rocks adorned with thick vines. The path would soon arrive on plain ground with trees freerer than those riddled with vines. It would then disappear before a river and appear on the other side. The other side was slightly raised above the river with trees which resembled winter without snow. The leaf who rode with the river would sometimes touch our bare legs while we lifted our pants to cross the river. That path is etched on my memories.
It is like a portrait hanging in my childhood nostalgia. It is decorated with colours that blind my emotions and above all, with darkness that climbs towards sunlight. However, even as I yearn for it, the path no longer exist. No, it would be more appropriate to say that the path have been left alone in the woods. The path that leads to that place have been erased by the road that leads to my dreary village.
Sometimes, I imagine green leaves peaking on the pathway just as it should have been. And the place admired only by the moon and the sun while it is left greener than all the aesthetic dreams of an artist.
Yours even as I fear to be.