I think of the moments that glide by us, like rustled feathers on the wing of an albatross. You know... the special memories that stick out in your mind. Those often unimportant, yet somehow memorable instances that stay with us like a scar. Ironic that I would make use of the word scar as an analogy. Many times, these memories have indeed created scars for us. I think of all the wrongdoings and misgivings that shape our emotional well-being. Oh, how some of us must look like gnarled masses of tainted flesh on the inside.
My mind has meandered into an odd sense of serenity. Not so much that it's uncomfortable, but more so somber. Picture this...
A lamppost dimly reveals a small park. Scattered about are worn benches and bloated old trees, leaning forth to give cover to their mangled roots erupting from the ground. The air is not cold, but the slight breeze certainly gives the evening a crispness. The hair on your forearm stands slightly at attention. You slip your hands into your jacket's pockets to ward off the chill in your fingers. As leaves roll forth across your path and into the depths of a moonless evening, your mind is at ease. At the end of the park, you can see the warm glow of the town cinema, The Menagerie. Old Man Winters and his granddaughter Vera take care of the place. You've never worked up the nerve to ask sweet Vera out; though even if you did, it's not like you could take her to a movie. It seems as if Ivanhoe is playing on the big screen; you've seen that one twice already. Taking a seat on a bench, you lean back and close your eyes. The breeze is still gently whipping. It could be a storm coming in, but the sky is still clear. Opening your eyes, you can make out Orion standing guard above. He's always been there for you, ever-ready as a defender of the simple humans below. Leaves are scraping, tip-toeing ever gracefully at random. The rustle of the park trees echoes a hollow chime of unknowing. Imagine how sad these tired oaks must be, you ponder. Constantly standing, never given a moment to rest. How they must wish to sit on a park bench. What torture it must be, these benches always within sight, but never within reach. In this, you feel a peculiar, yet wholly familiar, sense of guilt for the trees. What great sadness these trees must share. They spend their entire lives, reaching ever higher for the speckled firmament. They're given a taste of the wondrous heavens above, yet never set free from their anchored entanglement. A sword cuts in both directions; that is the truth that these trees know. Not only are the skies above forbidden, but so are the chances of resting their weary bodies. Locked in a position of dispirited melancholia; these trees know sadness. As you lean forward and grasp your temple, you share the feelings of these tired oaks. You realize the great dichotomy of the living world. There is a great sorrow in all that is magnificent. For there to be joy, their must also be anguish. Without one, there is not the other. You shed a tear for these tired oaks, wishing to take their place. If only for an evening, you hope for these trees to have a moment of rest. Stepping away from the bench and towards the nearest tree, you extend your hand and brace yourself against a strong oak.
Can you feel me? Do you know I'm here?
I answer back, though you may only take it as my limbs shaking in the wind.
Yes, I'm here. I can feel you.
I'm sorry dear tree. Your life must be hard.
It's alright, something must bear the burden of being a tree. That something is I.
I'll think of you when I'm gone from this place.
I'll think of you, too.
And with that, you step away from my trunk. Reaching down, you pick up one of my tears. Now brown and fragile, my tear was once green and vibrant. You place it in your pocket and tread on. You take a part of me with you on your journey. Alas, I take a part of you with me on my jaunt towards the majestic celestial expanse. Orion awaits for me there, just as he waits for you.
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