CHAPTER 3: SOLITUDE IN THE DARKNESS.
WILD PLANTS
Hello everyone, I'm Humansleep. This time I want to post my work again in the Alien Art Hive community. And here I will also share a work process whether it's drawing or sketching that I will later do as an effort to be seen and appreciated.
The loneliness that comes to envelod the soul and clutter the mind.
In a forest that has never been named, far from the sound of human voices, there is a place where light refuses to stop. The old trees stood like ancient sentinels, their branches embracing each other, forming a tight canopy that swallowed the sunlight. This was where she lived-alone.
His name is unknown, and perhaps unimportant. To be sure, she is not part of the busy world out there. She is a shadow that lives among the roots and the morning dew. Every day, she talks to the wind and listens to the stories of the falling leaves. There is no sound other than the creak of wood cracking softly or the swish of water flowing shyly in the distance.
He lived among the shrubs and long shadows of old trees, far from the sound of human voices, far from the world that was said to be “fine.” There was no clock in this place. Only time spins silently, like a heartbeat that has almost lost its tone.
He didn't choose to stay here. But that's how this disease works-it pulls you down slowly, peeling away hope like a thin skin, until all that's left is a body and a mind that swallow each other.
It's like an insect that keeps buzzing in your head. It can't be turned off. Can't be ignored. Every little movement in the bush, every crack of a twig, made her chest clutch as if something was lurking. But there was nothing. Just himself, and his mind twisting everything into a threat.
As for the creature? It was like a messy root that wrapped around and gripped its legs and body. Heavy. Cold. Tight. Sometimes she felt like this forest was an extension of herself. Dark, silent, and slowly swallowing everything that grew. Every morning felt like a little death, and every night like the continuation of a nightmare that never really ended.
He planted something in every corner of the small forest. Not brightly colored flowers, not majestic fruit trees. But small plants that had no names, that grew slowly, squirming for space in the wet, silent soil. He called them wild plants-wild, because they had never been tamed. Free, because they were never owned.
He started planting something in the forest, who knows when. Wild plants. Small, dull, and never flowered. Maybe because they looked like her. No one wanted them. But they survived. They grew in the dark, without love, without light.
Sometimes, he talks to them. Not because they were crazy, but because they were the only ones who didn't judge. They are silent. They accept.
“If I die, will you grow in my body?” she whispered one night, when the fog was so thick that the world felt like a tomb.
She looked at her own hands. The dirty nails, the scratched skin, the veins that she sometimes wanted to open. But not yet. Not yet. Because strangely, underneath it all... there was still a hint of curiosity: what would the forest be like if he let it grow? Would the wild plants creep up and swallow her?
Or rather... they will be the only legacy of a human being who is slowly disappearing, not because he was killed, but because he was forgotten-by others, by himself.
The forest remained silent. But he knew that for every root that stuck out, something grew. Just like her pain. Just like her.
This drawing is made with ink on paper, using a pencil.
Steps:
Notes: This story reflects the metaphor of mental illness-roots as a symbol of dark thoughts, trauma, or mental illness that grows silently, sometimes unseen, but slowly grips and takes over.
This is all I can say for right now, sorry if there are wrong words or my typing is not perfect.
Thank you for taking the time just to stop by and see my work, and see you in my next work. 👽🖐
