Subject: does anyone feel the same as me?
If you could picture: the smallest leaf on the tree, the last leaf left.
That leaf is the last piece of happiness that is torn in an unexpected storm.
What if it falls? Will the tree be disguarded from the eye, or will it stand out proudly?
Is it possible to regain something, someone you lost, and for it to be the same?
The new leaves, will they be as shiny, as green, and as beautiful as before?
They could.
But if they do end up perfect copies, they’ll still dry out, change in appearance, and fall away from the central idea, from the trunk.
And you sit at the bottom of the tree, surrounded by leaves, memories floating to the ground, but you can’t just fix them back on the tree, because they won’t simply survive...
The sun and moon dance around you in forgotten time, and you watch everyone live and grow around you when you’re continuously tumbling.
Then it’s time to wonder home, with that branch you’re left with.
To be brave, take the broken heart.
And you nurse it in new soil and nutrience, bath it in water, put it in a dark place – giving it time to grow. Just like burying your head into a pillow crying out for that person, that thing, to come back, those memories to continue.
Eventually, after long lonely periods of time, that small heart gains confidence, sees the light, and grows.
It grows tall, better than before.
You carry it out into the garden, plant it in the sunlight. This little seed, this little heart has the world in their hands, life at the fingertips; it just has to reach out.
Slowly, gaining confidence, it blossoms into the most beautiful tree.
The tree is the centre of the human eye, the most beautiful accessory in the picture, the picture of life.
But once again, the summer turns to autumn then to winter.
The weather is pulling its strings, pushing its limits, breaking it. All the memories fall to the ground once more.
And you’re criticized for never changing, because you’re still a tree. You are the tree.
You can do nothing right.
And you’re sat there on that very bench, reflecting back, missing the tree, the person you once were.
The tree was just ‘there’ and had no reason, but to ‘be there’.
It’s then that you start to bleed.
And you think those good times just aren’t worth anything because of the bad.
He shouldn't have taken his life, I should have taken mine.
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