Into the underwood

You like as I write, you say, but I ought to put some more rays of sun in it. Even you... But why all of you ask for the sun to me, me who am just a shadow searching for its sun? I am a dark corner in a man's heart, and with the sun... well, with the sun I would simply disappear. I live in to the underwood, under the thick and woven leafy branches of centuries-old trees. It is in this place of shadows and scents, moist and sometimes cold but crawling with life, that I live, observe, create and compose. And what I create, unfortunately, would be trivial when brought into daylight. Much better to let it linger in the lights and shadows created by the sun piercing through the foliage. Or to let it move slow there where the wood is thicker, and leave to your fantasy the duty of giving shape and size to it since there's no light enough to define it.
After all, some shadows are beneficial to you all as well. Sometimes the light dazzles, or makes too evident some flaws; or maybe there's something you prefer not to be seen, a small sin which would glitter in the afternoon sun. And so, every time you have the desire, or you feel the need, come to me, through blackthorns and bramble, here where I have my den, dug amongst the sturdy roots of a knotty tree. I will entertain you with my tales and arouse conflicting emotions in you with my stories. I will delight in your applauses, then I'll let you return to the light you're born from. Rotten leaves, moss and worms, mushrooms and wet soil scent: these treasures are mine and for me alone. Let's everybody lives in its own realm and will try not to change the other one.