The walls were closing in. The dirt was everywhere. On everything. Rusted cans, filthy bottles, and grimy plates. A second skin grew on her, constricting her breath, her blood flow, even her ability to think clearly.
She was raised as an only child and was used to her own time and space for discovery. Marriage and motherhood had changed all that; it bled her creativity dry into an arid shell of a woman. In a last ditch effort to find herself, she escaped to the woods, to the quiet space where earth and animals speak in foreign tongues misunderstood by the modern man.
She hoped to regress, to travel back in time to when she was a deer, or a tree, or maybe even the river she heard babbling outside the cabin. Her heart sank deep into that river. The cabin was in shambles; she was a mess, and only one geometric view of the woods through a veiled window could give her any hope of a light struggling desperately to shine through.