What If?

The bark of the wood was heavy on the hands, delightful to the eyes. Rich and scented, the rustling of leaves. The soft curves of branches, craning up to the eternal entity of sunlight and warmth, bending upward to seek what was taken for granted in its solitary and stable existence, something that sentience declared it could not understand, only feel with vague wonder and joy. It’s mind, dancing through the veins of the heartwood, reaching up and reaching down, a stretch to find the purpose of living, for water and for air and for light, for all needed, and everything desired. Simpleton of a mind, an existence, nothing to wrestle the grasp of purpose from its buds and color.



The mission known, the questions answered, the peacefulness falls over, curtains and dripping and dropping of rain rolling over leaves, the coolness transpired, the heat only imagined, the dancing something natural and uninhibited. The recall of summer breezes carrying away the leaves, the lost, the disconnected and barely cognizant of life just seconds before, as they tumble down barren grasslands, and into human life, swept away as carelessly as anything could be, nuisances to the order our minds pretend to seek. And yet, against the mission of the trees. That something could exist with such a set order, and tenuous existence, happy and free to breathe all the air it needed.

The inability to form coherency. All I’m really doing is stumbling through pictures that race through my mind with astounding ease, things I miss, I long for, I desire, and therefore suffer from lack of. As sure as the seasons change, I need my summer-time; I need the carelessness of breezes through my hair, and dancing through the meadows with the abandonment of all control.

The pictures, I can’t keep up with them in my mind’s eye. They blur, and I catch glimpses of a composition I don’t get nearly often enough. Waves, curves, the feel of breeze through the hair as you ride on your bike, the feel of grass all under me, the sun’s warmth, the grainy feel of beach between your toes, the shockingly cold sensation of waves that lap at you, make you numb, make you free with the transfer of responsibility, the handover of all actions to something more primal than any of us may truly acknowledge in the delusion of vast superiority to all around us.



Breathing, in and out. The rush and tingle that shoots through your entire being when you see someone you like. You aren’t supposed to be able to control that, you shouldn’t hide it. You shouldn’t be forced to retreat to your own, artificial oasis, where you can finally let out all the moments of trembling and stuttered words you had to hold back earlier in the day, alone, to meaningless air, to the breath that you breathed just last week, an earth’s circumference more travel under its belt, air that’s been to glorious places you could only dream and imagine of being at.

There’s too much I wish to say, and I’m not in the proper meditative state perhaps, to say it. I just really wish I was, because I’m a fountain, meant to be spewing forth happiness and cognizance of existence and the finite form of humanity we exist in now. I just can’t manage to escape said humanity often enough to say it, except in wordless inner summer-time workings, laughter that has no translation to any language except your soul, each individual soul, and feelings of jubilant knowledge that every natural thing near and around us is perfect as it can be, and therefore, we are, if only we care to acknowledge the tendencies of cognizant thought and paradigms placed upon us by corporations giving away free pairs of rosy, 3D glasses.

Wake up. It’s all clarity there in front of you, if only you take the time out to contemplate it, to throw away your aids with abandon, to stare at the ant crawling on a blade of grass in the sun, and realize that everything has meaning and perfect infinite existence.

If only you try.