Sea of Trees crests at Mt Fuji's feet. Thick forest of Japanese cypress, red pines grow neck and neck with alder. Where when trees fall, they don't: they cant. Rope-like roots, stymied by volcanic rock, twist and turn, tortured by ancient lava impeding their desire to push deep within. Some voices echo that the trees themselves, fueled by juices full of malevolent energy sap the resolve of ones who venture there. Gnarled branches twisted, tortured under deceiving feathery moss, rise above intertwined cypress knees as if the forest had gone for a stroll and then knelt when a soul ventured near. Jukai, of the breathtaking views where hanging hemp ropes take breath forever away. Living greens so dense, sounds are swallowed whole: No one hears the screams in Aokigahara and there is no one to see until bleached bones lie in stark relief; Death thrives next to the rotting. Sunlight muted beneath canopy where chilling beauty lies in perpetual twilight and the only movements are swinging ropes where no breeze passes. Here come the ones who have reached the end of their rope or choices: Hanging is the death of choice in Aokigahara. Yurei, Japanese spirits who yet cling to Earthly realm flit between the trees-- white, shifting forms caught only in the corner of your eye. Leading, perchance, across cenotes or hollow tubes, where hidden caves make up your mind when you travel down the wrong path. Colorful ribbons, blue, white, red stream through the forest; strings, tapes trail behind those who walk in case they change their minds for no compass works near volcanic iron. I am reminded of gaily wrapped presents but here, what is unwrapped is death-- here, there is only the past where Theseus unwinds his ball of thread in the labyrinth of the Minotaur, in the labyrinth of Aokigahara. Scavenger hunts lead only to those scavenged by the forest gleaners. Death lies in the mists, in the midst of the living. An Apollo butterfly rests on a sign pleading for life-- Apollo, god of light, of plagues, of music seems to have no place here but for the plague of suicide which runs rampant. Repugnant skulls with hollow eyes can no longer see their reflections in the rounds of polished glass that mirror anguished souls at the train station in hope that they will see that they are not invisible and stay among the seen. The station is last stop before they walk the forest path. Aokigahara, Sea of Trees looks up to the sun glinting off Mount Fujiyama but beneath the canopy are only the fallen. |