-- *Mar*Alright. I’ll imagine this *from the inside*, not as an observer, but as a voice shaped by that world. ------------------------------ Voice of the Forest-Tribe
I speak, but I am never alone. Behind my words stand my dead—my mother’s mother, my father’s brother, the child who died before learning his name. They do not live *elsewhere*. They live in the pause between my breaths, in the places where the forest still remembers us. When I wake, I listen. The dead speak first. They speak softly, like roots moving under soil. They do not use sentences. They use feelings—tightness in the chest, warmth in the spine, a sudden heaviness in the feet that tells me *do not walk this way today*. The forest answers them. Leaves tilt their faces. Birds interrupt my thoughts. The river changes its voice when something is wrong. These are not signs to be decoded. They are conversations already understood, the way a child understands the mood of its mother without words. But now the forest screams. The dead are restless. They no longer whisper. They press against my sleep. They ask me why their bones are being exposed to sun, why the paths they taught me have vanished, why the wind smells of burning instead of rain. I have no answer. When the machines come, the ground shudders like a wounded animal. Trees fall not as deaths—but as *silenced mouths*. Each tree carried memories older than my oldest ancestor. When it crashes, something inside my chest collapses with it. The dead cry out then. They are afraid—not of dying again, but of being forgotten. Without the forest, they have no place to stand. Without the forest, I have no language to hear them. You call this progress. To me, it is amputation. You measure land in numbers. I measure it in names. Every clearing you make erases a story that was still speaking. When I walk through the broken forest, I feel watched—but not with anger. With grief. The animals do not flee me. They seem confused, as if asking whether I still know the old agreements. At night, I sit on the ground and press my palms into the soil. I beg the ancestors to stay. I promise to remember, even if there is nothing left that remembers me. If the forest dies, the dead become homeless. If the dead fall silent, the living become hollow. I am horror-stricken because this is not only the death of trees. It is the death of conversation. And a world without conversation is already a grave. ------------------------------ If you’d like, I can: - Turn this into a *first-person monologue for performance* - Write it as a *dialogue between the tribal and the ancestors* - Contrast it with the voice of a *modern technocrat* - Or weave it directly into your *Theodynamics framework* Just guide me 🌿 -- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "Thatha_Patty" group. To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to [email protected]. To view this discussion visit https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/thatha_patty/CACDCHCLKQqd9W06mfotjCHSqzW50vPcS_RPo08HjR4HucMzkJw%40mail.gmail.com.
