The Centerless Forest

We enter a forest, where the atmosphere is haunted; where satisfaction comes from pattern and precision.

It is built around a procedural, almost algorithmic progression - a walk defined by rules, repetitions, and spatial logic in its geometric narrative.

You, the walker- must traverse woods built from a structural tale in nine increments, each step doubling the distance from the last.

You square your shoulders, take a deep breath - and...Begin!

A straight path begins at the tree line.

The Width is constant.

The Surface is compacted earth.

Sounds are intermittent, rustling, source indeterminate.

The walker proceeds.

~

After ten paces, the path forks into two identical branches.

The walker selects the left branch, not by preference but by rule:

always choose the path that bends least.

~

Twenty paces later, the trees align in parallel rows, planted by a precise and perfect surveyor.

Each trunk is spaced exactly the length of the walker’s stride.

The canopy forms a grid of shadows that shift but never breaks.

~

Forty paces ahead, a fallen log blocks the path.

The Diameter is uniform.

Moss coverage: complete.

The walker steps over it.

The log does not shift.

~

Eighty paces onward, the forest repeats itself.

The same fork.

The same alignment of trunks.

The same log.

The walker confirms this by counting rings on the bark:

thirty-seven, thirty-seven, thirty-seven.

~

One Hundred Sixty Paces

The path narrows by half.

Branches interlock overhead, forming a corridor.

The corridor’s length is fixed: one hundred and sixty paces.

At its end stands a stone marker engraved with a single arrow pointing forward.

The arrow is newly carved.

The walker continues.

~

Three Hundred Twenty Paces

The forest introduces a new pattern...

every seventh tree bears a hollow.

Every hollow is the same height from the ground.

Every hollow is empty.

The walker checks each one to confirm.

~

Six Hundred Forty Paces

A clearing appears, circular and perfectly symmetrical.

It's Diameter is sixty-four paces.

At its center - nothing...

Just a quaint lack of absence - located at the exact midpoint of a design that does not require an object.

The walker crosses it without pause.

~

Exit

After twelve hundred eighty paces, the trees thin.

The path widens.

The air shifts.

The walker emerges from the forest at a point that should logically be the opposite side of the entry.

Instead, it is the same place.

The path is unchanged.

The forest has completed its pattern.

The walker has fulfilled the sequence.

The journey ends where it began, because that is the only coherent conclusion.

~~~~~~~

There is no closing flourish that honors the story’s structural integrity - Just a final gesture of practiced precision: It is but a continual Repetition.

The walker takes this path every day.

The fork appears. The left bend is lesser.

The log remains unmoved.

The hollows are empty.

The stone marker points forward.

The clearing is symmetrical.

The exit is the entry.

Each element is verified.

Each deviation is catalogued.

Each anomaly is absorbed into the pattern.

The forest does not change.

The walker does not change.

The walk is not a ritual.

It is not a meditation.

It is not a metaphor.

It is a function.

Executed.

Returned.

Called again.

A map where each segment folds into the next like a Möbius band.

And a Walker who, like Sisyphus and his boulder, is cursed to walk this path into eternity.

........

You begin again.

After ten paces, the path forks into two identical branches.

The walker selects the left branch, not by preference but by rule:

always choose the path that bends least.