In the singing wood of my mind one place to sit is as good as any other. Amid the leaves, and thorns, and ferns, and airy mould, unfeasibly delicate spring flowers come and go almost more quickly than you can see. Within the timeless accumulation of uncountable seasons we and the forest are like friends with benefits. Lay yourself down on the fragrant floor and be overtaken. You can leave your number or not, the wildness will eat the plaid shirt you left on the ground and won’t hold a grudge.
I know. It’s late. The actual woods are now data, and the data don’t love me. In fact, they’ve left a mark for every time they didn’t love me. But look here, my mind is not just my mind. At each blow, a taut coherence that laughs at data catches me, sequesters the fallen story, tells me to remember my task.
Tendrils, local hands of the indivisible, reach up to softly grip my ankles as I walk. I trip, and this time they guide me to the opening in the pines where the circle closes. Heads or tails, heads and tails, all the leaves are in thrilling accord. Go, they say. Go.

Laura Costas is an artist, writer and Washington, D.C., native. She is the author of three books–Ariadne Awakens: Instructions for the Labyrinth, Fabulae, Tales for an Age of Ambivalence, and Honest Stories. She loves big ideas and would like to know what you think.