Untitled, as yet (a little addition)

It is time, and yet the thought of telling myself to keep moving seems redundant, worn out. Still, it has to be so, and so it is. I take off the winding path and into the grove of trees opposite the last of the tents, slowly lowering my head under the overhanging branches, weaving my way through the overgrown shrubs and wild grass. The smell of wildly breeding motia and tulsi overwhelms my senses, telling me that I have arrived in my sanctum at last. Through the walls of this dense shrubbery I make my way to the small clearing in the centre, covered from all sides, a world in its own. Even the sounds from outside find it difficult to pierce through the trees, those who stand like my guardians, forever silent, forever firm. Even the wind is not allowed to stir here, it is my heaven, I lie on its bosom, and the calm is its magic.
But someone has once been here, as I see, perhaps a very long time ago, and that too, not frequently. Perhaps just once, for I see a slashed tree trunk around the middle of the clearing, a lone martyr. Whatever it may be, this willing victim does offer me a place to sit, to rest my soul when it need be, and for this kindness I am grateful to a deaf giver. I look up above, to the bright blue sky, like a portal opened up through the wall of my defenses, yet it does not alarm me. None have come to pass through, and neither do I expect any change.
I spend half of my day in this temple, worshiping that which may only be described as silence and peace, and I preach to those who cannot listen, nor feel my agony. Then again, yes, why and how should I expect these plants to understand me, when those of my kind cannot sense anything at all, any of that which is true, from my eyes, from my face? I shrug the thought from my mind, and return to the ritual of caressing the trees, putting my ears to their trunks, feeling their coarse bark on my hands and my cheeks, letting myself fall in their open arms. I watch the sun set, the birds fly above me. I am free, I am liberated, I lie bare, an open book, for here, I am what I am, however feeble and pathetic that may be. And then comes the time when I must return, to be tended to, for a woman must live, if she despises suicide, and a woman like me lives with the forced aid of medicines. How many rivers must a woman walk, to be understood, to be felt, to be cherished? Now is the time to return to my house, to take my daily medicines, and to feign myself still in my place of pilgrimage, my Mecca.