My Writing

Millions of trees stare back at me after I finish my sore plight. I can faintly hear some prayers that I will give them the chance to speak, while others speak so loudly that their leaves fall off and I go deaf.

But I do not; instead I am transported into a world I have never been before, where the trees talk, and where I can hear more clearly. They all have their unique stories – some tell of frost bitten nights, alone, with a small ounce of hope left that summer will one day return. Their nakedness, the constant failing attempt to hide it, is exposed to the others, every part - sometimes embraced, sometimes not. Sometimes they are scared of what the other trees think of their nakedness, especially those able to keep their leaves, and they cry. They do not even realize that others are naked too. Some turn bitter instead, inwardly and outwardly, and their branches break off. As their limbs suicide themselves to the ground, you can hear their silent screams of inner torment – but it is too late. They have fallen, and there is nobody to listen anymore but themselves.

The ones who survive this harsh winter rejoice as the sun rejoins them and brings with it warmer air. With the sun some of the trees branch out beyond themselves. They let others grasp hold to their newfound health, and in so doing, produce the fruits of their labors. They realize that in helping each other that they have grown. Many are more than they had ever hoped to become.

Yet many more become what they had never hoped to. Their decaying matter on the forest floor that once was a part of them screams back to them to listen. Entrapped, they will not, nor can they. They are in a limbo within their own universe with no outside contact, and regretfully re-play their embittered departure over and over again, with no hope of ever becoming what they could have.

The growing trees do not give up – they still call back to them, wanting them to gain what they already have. They beg them to try a little longer, a little harder, telling them it will be worth it. Yet the decaying trees are still lost, too far consumed in their own personal failure of what they were supposed to be to hear them.