AT THE FOREST FLOOR

Mature trees everywhere, covered in bright green fur. Mud, roots, dead wood, live wood, generations of leaves, all stood around him, above him, beneath him, through him.

Bottles and cans were strewn liberally across the forest floor. Were they party vessels of alcohol, singular insular 'forgets', teenage boredom? Probably all three and more.

It was hard to know which path to take across the forest floor, there were so many of them, all well trod, all directional. 

Why so many, he pondered? Walk a few feet and there would be a path that branched to left or right, sometimes both at the same point. But he wasn't particularly worried. Yes, he was supposed to be back, and he was supposed to be working, hunched in front of his pc like his life depended on it. Connected, always connected, through emails, messages, texts. But sometimes you just needed to be on your own, by yourself, wandering aimlessly across the mulchy forest floor. So that was what he was doing. And you know what? It felt good and he was content.