Eight hundred years ago, in the seemingly calm and shallow marine waters of the Baltic Sea, just south east of the Swedish mainland, the gravitation pull of the moon causes the water surrounding the Island of Gotland to gently rise,

rise,

rise,

and then fall,

pushing the tide back and forth.

The Stora Alvaret, the largest expanse of limestone on the Eurasian plate, forms the most part of the Island.

As the tide rises and falls, to and fro, the soft water churns and somersaults, battering against the rock.

Two things collide. Tough and velvety. Solid and flowing.

The water sees the rocks weakness and permeates its flaws, reaching into its cracks again and again until the limestone can do nothing but give in.

Small fragments of rock break away from their mother and become one with the water.

Eighty years ago, four leaders from four parts of the world discuss the fate of a land that has an imaginary border surrounding it. Four hundred and forty-four months before this, almost the same happening occurred.

One of the leaders lives on a land almost four thousand eight hundred and eighty-two miles away. He was born on the North American plate, but his ancestry lies on the Eurasian.

Hot, sticky, churning mantle burns below the earth and pushes the two further and further apart.

The leaders, between them, decide to take control and split it down the middle into two lands considered as separate.

On the Sixteenth of September, a part of a wall is erected from a combination of clay, limestone, and water, and is used to divide a city.

On one side lives Mother, on the other side, Father.

Upon a fragment of the wall sits a part of the upper left curve of the letter ‘o’.

It is part of a written phrase:

‘Until we see each other again’.

Actaeon comes from a lineage that has spent millennia on the Eurasian plate, migrated from the African motherland.

Four thousand years before his birth, a mother sat with her child and told them a story describing the man that transformed from animal and back again. But for Actaeon, his fate was not so, and if you look carefully, you will see that it was the fault of chance and not wickedness.

Diana is a goddess, and she bathes naked.

And the surroundings of the lake are dense with pine trees and sharp cypresses, sacred to her.

The water that rests in the lake is one body of many components. Tiny fragments of clay, limestone, chalk, and igneous rock disperse through the soft, wet liquid so that they exist as one and many.

He walks on two feet whilst he hunts with his dogs and stumbles upon Diana.

And she changes his feet for hands, long legs for arms, and covers his body with a dappled hide.

Cells divide and divide and divide, and half and half and half.

Cells double and double and multiply and multiply and multiply and transform.

The surface of the lake’s water mirrors the sky above it.

Blue.

And white.

And blue again.

When he sees his head and horns reflected in the water, he tries to say ‘Oh! Look at me!’.

He hesitates, and his dogs catch sight of him on their hunt.

And her runs, over the places he has often chased. His dogs do as he has trained them to do and they do it perfectly. They catch him.

His conscience separates, and his body becomes one with the earth.

Matter flies from the highest point of a tree and moves with the mobile motion of the wind, slowing down and speeding up and slowing again until it loses its magic and falls to the ground.

It is eight millimetres in width, two millimetres in height, and four millimetres in diameter.

It rests on the soft muddy ground and rain falls and then stops, and then falls and then stops, pressing against the matter until it is buried into the ground.

It rests on the soft muddy ground and rain falls and then stops, and then falls and then stops, pressing against the matter until it is buried into the earth.

The heart lives at the base, just above the roots.

Upwards and downwards grow together. In two years, it grows twelve meters up, and twenty-four meters down.

Two birds decide to make it their home and have their children there.

At four years and at twenty-four meters high, lightning strikes, and splits the tree into two, and it falls, before it had the chance to become adult. On a different plane, matter flies from the highest point of a tree and moves with the mobile motion of the wind, slowing down and speeding up and slowing again until it loses its magic and falls to the ground. It is eight millimetres in width, two millimetres in height, and four millimetres in diameter.

It rests on the soft muddy ground and rain falls and then stops, and then falls and then stops, pressing against the matter until it is buried into the ground.

It rests on the soft muddy ground and rain falls and then stops, and then falls and then stops, pressing against the matter until it is buried into the earth.

The heart lives at the base, just above the roots.

Upwards and downwards grow together. In two years, it grows twelve meters up, and twenty-four meters down.

Two birds decide to make it their home and have their children there.

Roots grow and grow and grow, reaching and grasping further into the earth.

Leaves flourish and flutter and fall, and flourish and flutter and fall, and flourish and flutter and fall. Over and over again.

The Garden of Forking Paths, 2018-Present

Excerpt, ongoing narrative