I’ve never really been a person who likes doing anything.

For me, a lot of the time, it just

feels so much better to not do anything. That was how I felt for a while, at least. Up until about a

year ago, when I liked doing something for the first time. Now, to be clear, I like a lot of things

about life. I like food, nature, music, my family, and I even like people in general. But I had

never done anything in my life that I truly liked more than just sitting there. It made me feel like

I was weird, not knowing why I was so dreary all the time. Feeling listless in my daily life.

However, I wasn’t completely against going out of my comfort zone. The things I did like- food,

music, etc.- I tried to vary them as much as possible, because I liked to be uncomfortable

sometimes. But going too far out of my comfort zone for too long would usually be tiring. I

would need to recharge, do nothing for a while to get my mind back.

I had scrounged the house earlier for a plastic window fan sometime that summer, and it

was blowing loudly, as usual. I’m not totally sure if it helped the heat because I was always

sweating, despite my lack of exercise. For several weeks, during the quarantine summer, I had

been sitting in my bed, with my desk and my computer pulled up to the side. I’d wake up, roll

over to my desk-bed setup, and watch netflix for most of the day. Not even that a lot of the time,

sometimes I would just scroll the internet randomly, looking for anything to do. So, compounded

with the reese's wrappers and piles of dirty clothes and dishes, I was living a fairly healthy life.

My family would mostly leave me alone, but I would talk to them when I got food, or took a

journey downstairs with my dishes. Their conversation filled the rooms around me with cheer.

But, instead of the lovely, joyful rooms that shone yellow, I confided in my strange, gray cube.

Voluntarily. Strange, isn’t it? Maybe from an outside perspective, but it was something I enjoyed

doing.
 So, if I enjoyed being in my room so much, then why was I here? Outside? Doing

something? There are much nicer colors than gray. The deep green leaves in the dense forests,

the light blue, mixed with white in the sky, and even the golden yellows of the dehydrated grass.

The trees tower over me, the warm air whips by me as I cruise down the street, and the smell of

fresh grass in the air soothes me. I’m riding my bike for the first time since I was in elementary

school. I started riding somewhere, with no clear goal in mind for no real reason. I travel into a

new neighborhood, and stumble upon a gazebo. The gazebo is mostly made of wood, with a

shingled roof connected to the base using long posts. A brick path leads to the only opening,

otherwise, the gazebo is surrounded by bushy, green shrubs. I sit down on the bench that curves

around the entirety of the interior. I rest my head on the railing behind me, and admire the

surrounding scenery. The slight wind moves the branches in a kind of soft dance. The clouds in

the sky amble on, slowly inching towards their destination, wherever that may be. A mysterious

yap breaks me from my trance. I glance over at a lady standing by her small, loud, white dog. I

give her a sheepish wave as I stand up from my seat, and she smiles politely back. I amble back

to my bike, and make my way slowly to my destination, wherever that may be.

And then, much, much later on, I find myself in the same spot more or less. But now, I

wave to some workers as I ride past the houses being built. I cruise down the street past the old

haunted streetlight, and make my way down the snaking, half asphalt, half dirt road, past the long

standing pile of mulch. I take the second right, and continue past the spot where the water pools

up when it rains. I get an earful whenever I truck through the muddy water, so taking the second

right is usually a special occasion. I ride past the strange outcropping of trees on either side of

the road, and come to a slow stop- my brakes are broken, so I have to use my foot- right in front

of the mouth of the forest. Being able to take the second right is also a good indicator of whether
the forest floor is dry, which prevents another earful. A densely packed path of deep green trees,

fallen leaves and other debris, and all sorts of mysterious noises plunge deep into the forest. The

path continues for about a five minute walk, and opens out into another neighborhood.

Sometimes, as I walked in the forest, it was so beautiful that I wanted to cry.

The forest isn’t so much a forest anymore.

I only truly had the privilege of experiencing that path once. Afterwards, all that was left

was a single stump overlooking the small pond. The massive fangs of tires left their mark not too

far away. I would sit on the stump, and admire how much of a metaphor the whole scene was. I

thought, “That’s probably a metaphor for something. I’ll write about that one day.” Yet here I am,

staring into this picture, unable to do so. After a month or two, they even took the stump. I

couldn’t even sit down to regret not seeing the forest more. I had to stand. They made me stand.

Who even is “they,” though? I don’t know, to be honest. Maybe it just helps to point the blame at

someone, rather than the world. But they took the forest, and they took the stump. They left the

barbed wire, slinking deep down out of sight into the sad pond. The barbed wire that made me
think “Now that’s definitely a metaphor for something.” They left that big pile of sawdust in the

back, and about 10 piles of logs off to the right. They left enough to know it was there.

I spent more time thinking about how shitty I felt about the forest, than I did actually

being in the forest. Love life, love someone, love something, whatever you love, just love it

before all you have is barbed wire and sawdust.