Phosphor [&]

This is not a forest. It is the dream of one.

You are trying to imagine yourself beneath a tree, in a clearing, in a wood. By all means, it should be a fairly simple task. In practice, it is wretchedly diificult.

The tree you stand beneath refuses to conform to a reasonable height or shape. When you try to affix an image in your mind, it drops its leaves in protest. The grass flattens in solidarity. Color flees from your sight, and trickles from the edges of your vision like tears. The treeline recedes further and further from you, leaving you standing in a vast, desolate field underneath a dying tree.

You're trying too hard, a voice murmurs. Stop fighting the dream. Let it flow where it wishes.

The idea offends the part of you that considers itself grown-up. This is your imagination, after all. Your mind. Surely you should be the one in control?

The much more sensible part of you lets go.

Instantly, the world springs back to life. The sun winks out, painting your surroundings in blue and violet and deepest green. The recalcitrant tree doubles in size and stretches its branches. It sprouts violet leaves; and then crystals; and then a great ball of light blossoms at the heart of its canopy. Prismatic light dances around the clearing, scattered to and fro by its crystalline blooms. The grass perks up. Flowers bud. Fireflies float upwards. The treeline closes back in; the trees sway and murmur their indigo boughs in welcome.

Something rustles in the grasses by your feet. You look down. A silver ferret, lithe as a brushstroke, looks back at you. And in your mind, you feel it - your cue. You crouch, and the ferret hops onto your arm.

"You're becoming familiar with the ways of this place," it says. "That's good.

"Remember. When you are here, you are not the director. You are part of the dance, the play. The story." Its eyes bore into you, not unkindly. "Remember that, and the paths will be open to you."

(As for 9: answered!)