A Man and a Tree I

In the dream, I wandered across a wide field where the air felt older than language.

I wore a cloak—half robe, half memory—and each step pressed softly into the ground, as if the earth were listening. My body felt heavy, not with fatigue but with inheritance: unnamed expectations, accumulated time, the gravity of having lived. Carl Jung wrote that “the dream is a little hidden door in the innermost and most secret recesses of the soul,” and here, the door had opened into weight. The field stretched endlessly, an archetypal threshold, a place before decision. I was not lost, but I was not yet found.