A clear divide, a battlefield of brush, a war zone between green and brown. A straight line separates the two drastically different environments. I’m sitting on the side of the living with brush, staring into the bounded abyss five feet in front of me. The size of the abyss oscillates between being miles and feet long as I gaze. It seems to endlessly stretch, peppered with trees and what’s left of their tattered brethren. The soil is rich and moist, carpeted in dead leaves, pine needles, and shade. It’s almost all black and dark brown besides some moss and the occasional fern to break the silence of color. It makes the already wet, penetratingly cold weather even more chilling with each second. This dead zone both draws me in and want to hide away at the same time. Either way it drowns out the world around me.

As I snap out of its trance, I look around at the lush, green side I’m still on. There’s grass and moss all forming an earthy, living shag carpet. This side has trees too, but it’s not nearly as concentrated as it is in the dark patch ahead of me. I turn my head looking for anything else to hopefully stick out before I dare to move into the shiver-inducing space. Eventually, the draw becomes too much and my subconscious forces my body to venture into the dark shade.

*

High above me is a ceiling of dark green, a needle and leaf roof. Though this roof isn’t successful in keeping me or the ground dry, it succeeds in keeping the sun at bay so that this big empty hollow can exist. The brown flooring below shifts down as I step in it, soft from the fresh rain and rot. Littering this wet wasteland are the towers’ slain comrades. Fallen branches, rotting sticks, and moss covered shapes are strewn about like soldiers on a battlefield after combat. As the breeze pulls through, it knocks down rain droplets from yesterday’s storm. They hit other leaves and the ground, giving an off beat percussion to the scene, adding to the spooky vibe of the dead zone.

Even the living things in the zone don’t seem to be fully alive. Most of the trees that looked living from afar are actually clinging to their last breath as I get closer. Their small arms reach upward for the sun they’ll never get, the sun their taller brothers soak up selfishly. One tree in particular catches my eye. It’s frozen mid-fall at a 45 degree angle, unable to finish its journey to the ground, the forgotten aftermath of a recent storm. It‘s supported by some of its companions near by so that some of its bottom-most roots can keep it grasping for life. Its friends’ branches that are holding it up are bent unnaturally down; it doesn’t have much time left. Its roots are splayed up and out, making an outstretched web. Huddled close to the roots is a single small mushroom. It’s being shielded and given even more shade than the zone gives by itself. It’s as if the entire tree was sacrificed so that this one mushroom could thrive. A shiver runs through me at the thought.

*

On the other side of the zone, about fifteen to twenty yards away from the side I started on, everything is a bit more lush and alive. It’s true what they say, “the grass is always greener on the other side,” literally in this case. Trials in this life can be represented as the zone, bettering yourself as you get to the other side. It could be the pain that comes from loss, or the difficulties with getting through addiction, or even challenging schooling to finish in order to graduate. Once we triumph over them, we are on better ground for the next.

I rest my body upon a tree with an almost perfect seat dip in it. A blanket of moss sticks itself to the ground beneath me, giving me a natural cushion. The sun is shining onto me, once again giving me warmth. The pit of dread in my stomach releases and a river of overwhelming peace starts running right through me. I never want this feeling to go away.

But the zone calls back for me.

Once again the eerie feeling makes its way into my gut and I’m slugged with concern. Can I not just enjoy the good that nature has to offer? Am I really not satisfied without gloom or melancholy to wade in?  I try to reach that point of peace again, to prove myself wrong, but to no avail.
*
I gloomily make my way through the zone again and rest on a moist log that’s not so decomposed that it can’t support my weight.  An ant makes its way onto my arm and I brush it off. Moss coats the ground and mushrooms sprout around me. That’s when I realize it. That’s when I realize just what this place is. It’s not a dead space, it’s full of life, just not the immediately apparent kind. This life thrives on the failures of others, like the mushroom shielded by the roots. As if on cue, the sun shows up for some work in the zone, tossing a bit of its light in. A group of ferns I hadn’t seen in the zone radiate, big mushrooms pop up all around, moss creeps its way all throughout. Everything outside of the zone now looks dying in comparison. The green of the moss is so vivid, and the rot no longer looks like death, but opportunity instead.

A calm wraps itself around my insides, but instead of a peace that blocks out the gloom, I feel attuned with it. I feel so filled with understanding and I just lay in the center of the zone, channeling its spirit. The moss covered skeletons in the ground are morbidly beautiful. I had no idea that I could feel addicted to a certain type of eeriness like I am, or that I could feel so immediately in love with a place. At this point, she’s more than just a place to me. She’s a type of serenity I’ve never quite felt before. We keep calling and longing for each other even when we’re together. I turn my head to the side and see the green side that seemed so lively just minutes ago. I turn my head back up to the towers that made this space possible, the chokers and givers of life. I let it fall back to the divide, which feels like forever away now.

*
“It’s time to leave, Pete,” snaps me out of my trance as one of my classmates passes by me on the trail. I definitely don’t want to leave, but now it feels like even the zone is pushing me back out, like it realized I don’t belong here yet, like I should only get this glimpse of it for now. Dejectedly, I force myself to stand and start walking back to the trail, looking back at it the whole time. I can’t help but feel betrayed by the zone as I back away. Once I hit the trail I look at the divide one more time. It doesn’t look nearly as green as it did before. The contrast looks faded, like overwashed jeans. The rich brown of the zone is far more vibrant than the tangled green and tan of the grass. As I back away, the clear line between them still stands, the rich brown and the grass’s green becoming more vibrant as I go.