The root of the vein (A dream)

It was stunningly clear to me. I had awakened within my dream as a man halfway buried in dark, damp, moss strewn soil. I could not feel my legs. I could not feel if I had toes, nor understand where our instinctual human urge to bend legs and sprint down a hard dirt-packed path had gone. My chest was bare, a single enormous muscle carved down the middle, ending in the dirt that started at my torso. I was breathing heavily, and tufts of grass came puffing out every time I wheezed or coughed with lungs filled with lichens. I was screaming but there was no sound. I looked down at my arms, heavily etched in sinuous muscle, and saw they were a dark caramel brown mixed with rock gray. Branches, twigs and vines began growing just around where my fingers should have been, and curved in lovely arcs out over the forest floor, twisting, growing and wrapping themselves around other trees. My entire hands were a tangled mess of vines, choking one another as they wrapped and wriggled towards a sunless freedom. I looked up at the canopy, still silently screaming, and shoved my "hands" deep into the earth in order to free myself. Instead of lurching upwards and out, I felt my hands quickly entrench themselves deeply within the mossy floor, and I began sinking quickly. It was then I felt the tree growing out of my head and I awoke.