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To Carry the Trees
The light blue wall imposes itself upon me; its plaster arms join with plaster ceiling, and I am
suffocating in an overbearing box of plaster. There is a single opening, that sweet portal to the outer
realm of leaves and trees and wind and clouds and sky, but it offers no solace, for that desperate
little puncture wound is stifled by the drawn blinds, which in turn are dwarfed by the overwhelming
notion of confinement, bolting me to the bed opposite the wall, compelling me into a state of fear and
disheartenment – longing to discover what lies behind those impenetrable fortifications, but too bound
by content to act on such a whim.
It is dark.
The creeping fingers of night
slither around the edges of my vision;
the thin tendrils of starlight
squeezing through the blinds
are easily smothered
beneath the crushing grip of darkness.
Perhaps it is the darkness that makes that room so formidable, perhaps the vast expanse of
unoccupied space abruptly truncated by that looming wall, perhaps the perpetual aura of foreboding
that hints of solitude. Perhaps it is not an element of the room, but of the occupant; perhaps it is the
loneliness itself, lingering in that sullen ball of fiery passion locked behind my chest, biting at my flesh
from the inside, seeking escape from that oppressing bastion through every available orifice.
The white carpet seems to glow
in the darkness.
Eagerly, it rushes outwards,
into the boundaries
of its predetermined domain.
Now sitting up, I stare blankly through the darkness, eyes affixed on some unseen point in space
beyond the wall before me. The wall stares impassively back, but I can read its true disposition – it
is begging for my attention; it desires above all else to bind itself to me, and I to it, so that it may
forever exempt itself from the isolation of insentience. I am drawn forward, captivated by this alluring
sentiment, apathetic of any consequence, so long as I am free of worldly desire and longing. Entranced,
I reach forward; taking the wall’s outstretched hand in mine, I am pulled into its caring warmth, shielded
now from the icy tongue of solitude.
The walls seep loneliness.
They bend inwards,
impartial to the threat of snapping
so long as they are
but an inch closer,
to beckon me
into their pleading embrace.
A whirl of rustling from beyond the window severs my trance; I am not a part of this wall, nor is it a
part of me. By some frustrated fit of rage, I am thrust from the wall’s embrace, and I again lie face-up on
the mattress, eyes boring relentlessly into the ceiling, searching for some sense of meaning that surely
isn’t there. Almost of their own accord, the blinds are withdrawn, and my eyes burn from the shining
light to which they are not yet adjusted.
A single, fleeting glimpse into the night,
and already I am lost
in the browns and golds.
The wind whispers
a thousand voices into my ears,
and I am swallowed by its soothing caress.
A further look,
and I am the wind itself,
weightless and untethered;
I sweep the trees,
relieving them of their dying weights.
I lift these burdens high above the ground,
rising far beyond the feeble reaches
of their former masters.
We mock the aging oaks and pines below –
they are bound to exist in bondage;
we are free to die in freedom.
The blinds are closed,
the leaves settle