Bryolic

The forest is never silent, even at dusk. Leaves rustle, peepers sing in the distance, the creek trickles peacefully. The sounds, though, are dampened by the thick moss that coats the forest. It has spread like a blanket, like a virus, across the trees and the rocks and the earth.

The forest looks both dead and alive. Decaying and thriving, haunted by the things that have died here. Their remains lie beneath soft and vivid beauty.

The moss climbs even the tallest trees, living in harmony with its surroundings. The plant life of the forest has gingerly accepted its invader. The animals are less sure of its innocence. They step cautiously over it, never staying in one spot for too long, knowing what happens to the things that are still.

It feels offensive to tread on it, as if you are stepping on something that knows you are there. But there is no other way through the forest: you must walk through the moss. It is soft beneath your feet, and it feels as if it might move at any given moment, like it may pull you under, and you, too, will be buried, hidden, encased within the moss, along with everything around you.