becoming green

i’ve been trying to write about my dreams but they resist language. they burn instead. they arrive as fever and leave as ash. when i wake, i can’t remember their story.. only the trace of heat under the skin. it feels like something has passed through me and changed shape. deep green. the kind that grows where sunlight barely reaches. it feels like rot. heavy, wet, breathing.

the dream stays with me, not as an image but as weather. it moves through me like damp air after rain. i think of rot and how it carries the quiet work of the world. how every fallen leaf becomes a promise to the soil. nothing in nature disappears. everything shifts, softens, finds another shape. the sweet fruit turns; wood bends back into earth; moss drinks what remains. this is how the ground learns to stay alive.

in the same way, i feel parts of myself decaying. thoughts, habits, attachments losing their edges, folding inward. it isn’t peace, but it feels necessary. maybe my dreams are doing the work my waking self avoids. they take what has finished inside me and return it to the ground of my being. they compost the moments that have lost their life.

the green i feel in those dreams is decay. a quiet form of transformation. the mind becoming soil for what it has yet to imagine.