When the Trees Talk to Me
Rooted there. Full with thoughts, crowded by ideas that change with the seasons,
change with the weather. How is it, to be constantly exposed to the outside world
that will inevitably change you, never fails to? Even if little twigs are cut off
occasionally, is it a bad life, is it a dull existence? One condemned to sit, to wait, to
watch? Simply collect ideas and decorate your character with them, hold them
around yourself like you are cold and your thoughts will keep you warm?
No, it is not. Every passerby leaves a token of their stay, perhaps carves their initials
where the bark has worn away. You don’t need to move around the world if the world
is moving around you. It is impossible to be lonely when inside of you lies the home
of a wayward squirrel who refuses to arrive when you call, but always returns in the
end. And gnarled, familiar fingers grasp you by the shoulder and speak to you for a
time that has no defined end, but stretches on and on until it slowly fades away. Like
all things, though, it will come again if you only ask it to.
Talk to me, tree. You are young. How can you tell me such things?
Alas, you cannot, ever, give a perfect answer, but only keep collecting.
change with the weather. How is it, to be constantly exposed to the outside world
that will inevitably change you, never fails to? Even if little twigs are cut off
occasionally, is it a bad life, is it a dull existence? One condemned to sit, to wait, to
watch? Simply collect ideas and decorate your character with them, hold them
around yourself like you are cold and your thoughts will keep you warm?
No, it is not. Every passerby leaves a token of their stay, perhaps carves their initials
where the bark has worn away. You don’t need to move around the world if the world
is moving around you. It is impossible to be lonely when inside of you lies the home
of a wayward squirrel who refuses to arrive when you call, but always returns in the
end. And gnarled, familiar fingers grasp you by the shoulder and speak to you for a
time that has no defined end, but stretches on and on until it slowly fades away. Like
all things, though, it will come again if you only ask it to.
Talk to me, tree. You are young. How can you tell me such things?
Alas, you cannot, ever, give a perfect answer, but only keep collecting.
Wow. You are amazing.
Perhaps you should enter the writing contest that I'm directing here on GSB.
(It's in my profile)
eh?, March 5th, 2008 at 11:46:30am
Thank you so very much, you don't know how much that means.
Miley Cyrus, March 5th, 2008 at 07:58:29am
Oh wow, you are such an amazing writer.
If you ever write a book, i'm definitely buying it.
ZootSuitRiot, March 5th, 2008 at 01:16:00am