My Perfect Getaway

“Someone once told me that going somewhere — where no one knows you — could be the perfect get away from being you.”

Branches and twigs of anonymous and neglected trees, right at the bottom of the Nature’s hierarchy system (beneath their smelly feet), hooked and trampled their innocent limbs as they pass by to gain perhaps empathy or sadistic satisfaction. It looked similar to those people who would do anything and destroy any that gets in their way to obtain what usually was fame, power and money. The fallen leaves, once young and full of energy, now limp and wilted in the hue of brownish-yellow, curled inward like an elderly who has shrunken out of dying cells. The trekkers indifferently stepped on their brittle body and crushed them into pieces, which can be hard to reassemble again.

Adapted to self-defend themselves from the rainforest creatures, the vines and shrubs from their right- who might be kinships of the mighty rose — pierced through the flesh of a young lad’s thigh, who was either plain unarmored, or underestimating the power of Mother Nature’s creation. Vibrant and crimson red, the blood drop takes a peek at this wondrous creation of God, so called nature’s emerald city: a rainforest.

Right before it trickled down the traveler’s thigh, the scarlet drop was sucked into the hollow tummy of a tiny black chewed bubblegum, a so-called leech. It attached its whole body onto his fleshy thigh as if it was a suction cup. Taking a bit more energy than expected, the young lad successfully detached the now plump leech (looks like someone’s full), resulting in gushing blood and a minor scar. Carrying a perplexed look, he squished the bug, attempting to end its life. Astonished by the leech’s durability, he hurriedly flicked the creature away before it decides to prey on his long-thin pianist fingers instead.

Teaming up with the rain, some of the soil path’s original solidity mushed together and transformed into a viscous texture — increasing the struggles for any that wished to pass. Imaginary hands kept on picking on the trekkers, dragging their feet into the soil, making their journey far longer and tiring than it should have been. When one of the trekkers (seems to be the leader) turned back, just to see how far they’d come upon — all they saw was vanity of the mud that stuck onto the soles of their boots: muddy imprints of our foot soles here and there on our ant path. Weirdly, it reminded the leader of those hickey marks lovers make to mark their property.

Cramping their legs close together, amidst a sea of weeds and wild grasses, where abundant species of green fingers, tickled them while they preceded their path, making all of them sped up a little to get away from how similar it is — to all the anxiety and agony they kept so long within themselves. From peers. From betrayal. From reality. But hey-

Up above, you will see the majestic roman legions of tree men: tropical rainforest trees.

Unfortunately, they aren’t as organized and disciplined as the roman legions, they are all scattered about. Some in herds, some in solitary, some just bewildered in confusion. They all have their own races, their own preferences, and their own individuality. Trees are like people. But better, they don’t have to rely on others to survive (they’re autotrophs). Their like cavaliers, with swinging, coiling and dangling vines for weapons and full fiber and wood armor for protection, but their ideal isn’t war but to seek for peace within themselves.

Despite the forest vampires’ constant annoyance, the other creatures within the forest were quite welcoming with the trekker’s arrival; they gave us an incognito orchestra performance made mainly by their eccentric yet extraordinary voices.

The more the trespassers ventured forward, the more the forest began to reveal itself, the more determined they were to continue their journey. Even the fiery star cooperated, guiding them, with its radiating beam. Brightening and illuminating the whole rainforest, creating a clear pathway for them, while they slowly take in the beauty of it all. Dry and refreshed, they reached another shelter area since the start of our odyssey.

Drip, drip, drip…. (I spoke to soon)

The leader lifted her palm gently, both of them this time, letting the cold sensation pour onto her skin in forms of droplets, lingering at her fingers. Ice cold, each drip made the insides of her cringe, grasping for something within herself before it trails of elsewhere. Drip…drip…drip…

“Why do you always do that? When it rains I mean?” Said the guy behind with a gentle voice, as if she was a porcelain doll, he spoke as if he was whispering through someone’s ear. How soft and tenderly it was, dragging her back to reality, which she’s not pleased of.

A guy with tender words, a charmer with a collection of broken hearts. Camel-like lashes, making you stop a couple of seconds to mesmerize it; his brownish-cold black pupil piercing right through you, sending shivers down your spine. Unease. Eggs were hatching on his scalp (such a mess) — an imperfection, making him human in a way.

Clearing her throat, she replied: “Imagine that each and every drop of this rain, was a tear of an unheard soul, seeking for significance.”

He was not expecting that reply, making him at a loss of words. “Personally, I like the rain, it shifts shapes you into a chameleon, camouflaging you with the rain — veneering your sorrows when you need to release yourself, in tears. Alone. It washes away your anxiety, pain, loneliness, just like this forest does. It doesn’t care who you are in the past, present, or future. It just wants you to put all of it down and listen (quietly of course).”


Drawn towards the sound, she maneuvered her head in that direction. Two lads from her team was helping a girl up, figures that she slipped. Her countenance scrunched toward the center, conceding the agony of her sprained ankle. Due to embarrassment, she slipped on a smile to reassure everyone, and nodded towards the lead, miming that she was alright. She nodded back but went over to give her a hand anyways.

“Let’s rest here!” she exclaimed, and slowly invited the girl to rest on top of a boulder.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.