You Don't Plant Trees in Parking Lots

They fell like wine lovers from the treetops in autumn, bright red and flaming yellow, as if something had spit up mucus from it's lungs. It was beautiful, so crisp and dry that my teeth bit into it with a crunch, and my breath came out of the ordeal smelling of mint and willow bark. The use was something akin to the nature of the woods itself; I ran through her, my hands far from shy, until I explored everything there was: every rock, log, tree, leaf, branch, turned around several times. I fell into the cracks in the sticks on the ground, you see. There was infinity in them, endless cities of oak with pebbles of people darting around in them from one home to another, saying hello and waving to each other with face brimming over the top.

Some one told me that every now and then you forget who you are and where you are, and everything that lies behind you is the only thing you see ahead. You stop, and all thats left in your soul is the desire to stare out and let everything fade back into nothingness. It's the nature of things. When I was younger I could feel the wind and breath in it, let it fill my lungs; it empowered me, the wind did. These days I can only see the wind, and feel it a little bit when it's strong, but I don't exist in it in the same way that I used to. Eventually, or so my brother said, I won't even be able to see the wind anymore. Everything will just move of it's own power and will, and my world will be filled with everything dancing and twitching.

The truth is that we don't know what to think eventually, and we get caught up in this cycle of pushing ourselves to think how we used to, and so we slowly die, having already ventured that thought process, and never grow, having bonded ourselves to that one and only thoughts process. It's the desire to hold on, this illusion of worth and meaning. The truth after this, in order to save a life, is that nothing matters, and everything is the past means nothing. The only real representation of the past is memory, and anything beyond is not an easier way to remember the past, but an easier and more effective way to tie down the you that is growing to the past you, which never stays the same, and only slowly decays into the nothing that is was before.

Tonight the sky reaches up with God's hands, spilling over with a chalky cyan, and splashing into brilliant white, where the sun beams through wisps of clouds. It doesn't look like dusk is coming, it looks like a dawn of a new day. And the truth is, that means nothing. It's beauty, and that's sufficient; isn't it?