Into the wood, into the wood inside, let it goBy day, New York City drowns the soul beneath glass, concrete, deadlines, and endless noise. By night, its towers glow like electric monoliths, illuminating a weary civilization that mistakes perpetual motion for life. One walks among millions and yet remains profoundly alone.
~ Roma Amor, Into the Wood
Beneath the starless canopy, the city seems incapable of silence. Even in the darkest hours, its lights burn and its machinery hums. Yet amid that tumult, I sense another realm, not a place of comfort, but of freedom.
Jünger understood that the forest is not merely a landscape but a condition of the soul. Long before one flees outward, one must withdraw inward. The first forest is entered without taking a single step.
Perhaps that is why I don't dream of cottages or pastoral tranquility, but of primeval woods where forgotten paths disappear beneath twisted oaks, Cyclopean stones rise from the moss, and eagles wheel above verdant valleys. Every shadow hints at something ancient and forgotten.
The metropolis demands conformity, while the forest—indifferent, austere, and uncompromising—demands character.
I return each morning to elevators, meetings, flashing screens, and crowded trains. Outwardly, nothing has changed. Yet in my mind I see roots cracking the pavement, while vines steadily climb toward the water towers and spires. The forest has already begun its reclamation, not of the city, but of the soul. Until then, I continue dreaming into the woods.
~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 27th, Feast of San Baccolo di Sorrento
