they see a bridge, i see a tunnel
i had a dream of a witch that turned into a tree and had to witness her purpose become so warped i swore i saw myself in the veins of her bark
.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜・・゜゜
It has been years since I’ve been able to fall asleep without dreaming. During every cat nap or deep slumber, I drift off to strange and sometimes familiar universes where I’m met with some type of hazy illusion that mimics something personal and true to my being. Sometimes I’ll wake up even more tired than I was when I fell asleep from the chaos I battled in my dreams, or sometimes I wake up feeling rejuvenated and inspired from the light my dreams constructed. The other day I had a dream about a tree except it wasn’t a tree, it was a woman. And at the same time, it wasn’t a woman, but a bridge. Not a bridge, a tunnel.
The tunnel was named Mary, and the following text is her story.
Mary was never meant to be a bridge. Nor a mother. But sometimes these things just happen. People walked over her broad body from one side to the other, and an overwhelming feeling of remorse crept into my chest. It looked like it hurt her— heavy human bodies and their heavy human footsteps, heaving and hauling themselves across without a single ounce of penitence for the ancient spirit they walked all over. Can they not hear her crying out? I can hear it through the wind as her leaves rub against one another. We both cry the same— quietly wild. I want to wrap my body around hers and keep her safe forever. There’s a small family of foxes playing under her arch. I watch them with glee. Why did Mary have to be a bridge when she could’ve been a heavenly archway to cross under? Like a blessing of an archangel, Mary could’ve been a symbolism of strength and protection where when you walk under her you’re reminded that you’re being looked after. If she’s sturdy enough to be a bridge then why can’t she be a shallow tunnel? People see something leaning so haphazardly and think, “how can I use this to my advantage?” and never “how can I help?” And even if the tales were true, that Mary was a sad witch that prayed to a god outside this towns Christian god and was turned into a tree with a trunk as wide as a swimming pool to stop missionaries from spreading their gospel only for that same god to strike her down with a bolt of lightning because she was “too BIG” and took up “too much space,” and now she's cursed with a disfigured body that resembles a bridge— or an archway, even if this was all true, I can’t fully believe that she is here to bestow some type of fear of rebellion, that she became a passageway for what she stood against. Because while this whole town seems to accept this idea that Mary’s uprising against the church only made it easier for their people to continue their missions, all I can see is a clear, open, and slightly shaded tunnel below her where nature and its creatures commute peacefully. Maybe the god she prayed to knew what us humans would make out of her, so they had asked her instead, “how can I help you?’.
I'm not a bridge, nor a vessel, but I'll be something in between, something hollow, yet full, something strong, yet temporary. I want to guide but I don't want to be walked over. Can something move through me instead of over me for once? I want to feel alive. Remind me what it’s like to not feel empty.
I used to have long, willowing hair that fell over my face in the same way Mary’s did. Only time will tell when it becomes my turn to be turned into something bigger than a well-traveled path for lost and broken souls.
☆ j from north of space