I found myself in the middle of a forest where the greens had receded, giving way to a twilight that melted into the shadows in golds and silvers. Dry leaves crackled underfoot as I stepped over fallen branches, echoing over a silent landscape.
The trees and their light brought me a memory, a memory of the great silver and golden trees, the trees of light, the trees whose light was later captured in gems immortal, forged by the deathless, warred over by the tortured souls of those who would not die, crushed themselves by those who lorded over the dark world, a world beyond the limits of their incipient knowledge.
It was so quiet, so still, that I came to feel I was the only creature in this forest, that is, aside from the tree folk, whom I strived to listen to, even if my senses did not seem up to the task, but still I strove to look kindly on them, and this being a dream, though a dream more real than the waking world, I did not fear harm, though in those shadows I did sense, and expect, a horned figure, which did form, which did walk far off beyond a clearing of white light, where the trees had fallen.
Seeing that tall two-legged creature, a god among fauns, among centaurs, perhaps, made me terribly aware of myself, I saw only its great stature, I saw only its long horns, comparable to those of the goat, of some species of mountain goats, but different, more ornamental, sinuous to be sure, yet the creature seemed very capable of confrontation, with its ashy countenance and skin covering, things I caught in the blink of an eye, as it passed deep in the forest, and which I caught only by grace of that clearing that let light through.
I turned away respectfully from the fascinating light of the trees, with their remnants of a glorious antiquity, their timeless comfort and truth washing over my face and hands, I turned away from them because wherever I went, and go I must, I carried them with me, I could return to them.
Likewise, I turned away from the fascinating horror of the great horned one, the lord of the forest, whose blooddrenched altars could have opened dimensions askew from the three we can see, who could have shown me the mysteries of pain and sex, but these I had enjoyed, and I knew how to rediscover them, explore them anew, always anew with a nymph of the forest, for each experience with the female is unique, it is divine, for the darkness of pain and death worship had shown me its ways, ways that turn us away from the inherent beauty and fascination with the female, that we do not need the stone nor the blade, that we need only our virility and the delectable nubile.
The path I chose took me away, away from the stillness of inner light, away from the path of the horned one, that path beyond the clearing of outer light, opposite of them, to find higher ground, where my hands could grasp solid stone, ascend higher ground, and look over them, that I might one day learn to glide over them, and from that higher vantage point, enter their mysteries.
This little write up and its sentiment parts from the magic that a certain photographer captures in his images.
That photographer is Nomoth.