The untrained eye sees vast amounts of greenery—green that extends endlessly on and on, the same unimpressive flat colour in perpetuity. The shape of the foliage varies, adding much-needed texture to the scene. Leaves—spikey, rotund, short, and spindly—define the surroundings. The plants, stacking and co-mingling with each other, are unruly and tenaciously plump, climbing over and around a cliff edge. 

Through the still parts of the river, the shape of mossy spotted rocks guides the stream by the treehouse. Reflections of light throw up against the overhanging rock and ripple along the bank. The occasional butterfly reposes on a palm. A large dry white boulder suntan-baked sits plonked in the middle of the stream, parched from the midday heat. 

Bodies of water rush the same. The sound of moving water- is the sound inside a sea shell, is the sound of a rainy downpour, is the sound of a wave against a shore. It’s fucking making me crazy. I’m always listening out for the ocean, hoping it will speak to me. A conduit to God, I hope these waters carry the inspiration to write.

There’s extra time in nature, days stretch out. Sunlight goes further. It’s a sensory pivot away from the world beyond myself. Here, alone with my thoughts and the relentless white noise of the water I am measuring out words, I am practising stillness. I am crying in a jungle.

xx SJ