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Killing the Wood

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I stand alone as the day dies. The light takes a final breathe before it drowns in darkness.
A hundred trees fall down before me. A thousand years lived, a thousand years taken. Their ancient bodies crack and they cry out before they hit the ground. Why? Why are people so evil? I feel a snake crawl inside my brain; an evil feeling is born within me.
I feel utter hatred.
I want to hurt the people who kill beauty, just to satisfy their love affair with cold cash. I want to pound it into their thick skulls that what they’re doing is wrong.
Like salivating monsters they murder an entire forest, and they leave behind what they have no room for in their gigantic trucks.
It kills me.
I fall to me knees and inhale ragged breathes of death. I taste salt. A scream erupts from within the dark crevices of my being; a part of me is gone. I tried everything to destroy their horrid plan. I slashed their tires and wrote their king letters. I went with the classic, “stand in front of their bull dozers.” I begged to them. But like a raging tsunami they crushed my army of one. They nullified my desperate attempts and I failed. The wood is dead.
What am I to do?
I pick myself up and turn my back to the misery. Wallowing in pain will do nothing. I will find a way. If it takes my whole life I will not stop. With tragedy, passion is born and horror is fuel to my flame. I hop on my moped and drive away, far away from this. As my hair whips around and the fast moving wind dries the pain off my face my heart beats some life back into me.
I will cause problems. I will make things knotty.
The wood will live.



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