You fold yourself into a thing, because the enfolding is more significant and meaningful to you than the simple act of being there and participating in it. You move, within and between the trees and mountains for a while, hoping, yearning, needing to be a part of this place, wishing you had come to it sooner, had drawn it into yourself and defined yourself with it, by it, for it. You embrace it for the time you are there, but the time is too short, too involved, too limited, and you know that even when you return in the future, that visit will have the same inherent lack.
Having folded yourself into it, you are no longer merely yourself, and when you leave, some small but powerful portion of it comes away with you, inside of you and surrounding you, transparently opaque within your mind. It is written on the inside of your eyelids every time you dream; it is written on the inside of your mind every time you breathe. It haunts you, and the haunting becomes you.
As you have folded yourself into it, it has wrapped itself inside of you, between and within the folds of flesh and mind, but to say that it has become you is to make it less than it is. You have become a small portion of it, is the thing, and the becoming, then, has a magnetism that is both unavoidable and inescapable.
So, you know one thing: You will stand within it again, and you will walk beneath its eaves and breathe its air and hear its whispers in the leaves and needles, more clearly than you do as you dream each night. And once you have partaken of it again, the enfolding will redefine you.
Text and image © 2014 Jered Dawnne