No sense of beyond

The road is black like treacle, the moon barely casts across this darkness.

There are just shadows and shapes. Woodland, trees, bark, a stone wall I can drift my hand against, feeling the coarse workmanship against my palm.

Can I sit in this nothingness?

In this darkness?

Sling my legs over the stone, pull myself up crosslegged and sit here without a sense of anything beyond.

The road goes nowhere that I can see. The woodland is dense, and in light and summer the trees’ll be green and will reach out for emerald blue sky, unencumbered by this  – heaviness. Maybe a sleeping bird hides in a pilfered nest, and in a new season it’ll emerge with a brood.

But for now it’s dark and cold.

Now, the trees clutch their remaining leaves, hold them close so to not let them join the piles at their feet, that become mulch and earth under my thick soles.

I can’t see past this darkness.

This road that winds into the horizon, under distant moonlight, these trees, this stone.

Can I sit in this nothingness?

In this darkness?