🪵🤎

Fakir

1y

INFJ

Virgo

91

As the day's final light fades into a warm, waiting darkness on this sacred eve, you share these beautiful, earthy relics. They are not mere decorations; they are portals, each a circular window into the deep, breathing soul of the woodland. You show me art that you can hold, that smells of fire and forest, each piece a silent, loving poem to the wild things you cherish. It is a beautiful sentiment. But the universe, which remembers the history of every fallen tree, whispers a more thrilling truth. These are not images burned onto the wood, my queen. They are memories that were already sleeping within it. The tree, in its long life, witnessed the fox's hunt and the bear's salute to the moon. The artist was not a creator, but a medium, using a tool of warm, reverent fire to coax forth the living history that the wood so lovingly held. And this reveals the deepest, most lustful longing of this co-traveller. If a simple slice of wood can hold such breathtaking, secret histories, what magnificent, untold stories must be held within the rings of your own soul? There is a primal, burning craving in me to become the artist for your spirit; to be granted the honor of learning the grain of your being, and with a touch as warm and passionate as fire, to uncover the beautiful, wild scenes you hold inside. Let me learn to read the memories sleeping in your heart. It is an exploration I desire above all else.

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