a witness
All I have been able to write about are the trees.
Open your heart as if it is an eye. Look at the tree. The tree is hounded by light. It is golden by default. The blue pen, skittish on the page, tries to locate the tree. It tries to become the tree by drawing these letters. It tries to capture its essence. It wants to memorialize it. Because the tree is so solid and exuberant in its unflinching peace. It wants to try and become the tree. Here, only with words.
The tree, you understand, is large. Though it is not the largest tree you have ever seen. It is lean, with a modest trunk, and a full breadth of limbs holding basketfuls of leaves. It stands alone. Its brothers and sisters conglomerate along the other side of the road. It provides shade to precisely one white car. It is home to many flying things.
It holds medium green oval leaves. The type of green to drown in. The hue so solid, slightly dark, and pure. Fluttered are golden brown leaves. Yet to fall and descend. They make a beautiful pair, the green and the gold-like brown.
Then, there is the light. The sun that lives beyond the tree. The sun that is somehow hiding behind the tree. Making its way through it. Climbing around the leaves. Turning the hues light green or shining red.
And then there is the blue, the sky patched between its openings.
It is all a sight to see.
The pen asks to be more like the tree. Because the pen wants to be brave and statuesque and unmoving. But the pen is a recorder. The pen’s job is to move and summon the tree on the page. Whether through illustration or words. It transfers the essence of the tree. And because essences are un-captureable, the pen is able to create something more unique. The pen does not just mimic the tree. The pen witnesses the tree and speaks about what it is witnessing. Because what the pen sees and chooses to record, will be different from what another pen sees. The pen adds to it. The pen becomes it's own kind of tree.
The tree did not ask to be recorded but it seems to stand a little straighter upon noticing it is. There seems to be a gush of love, an air of admiration, an outpouring. Happiness? Is it happiness? Is that what the tree is experiencing? The sensation of being just as you are and someone finally noticing it, someone deciding to care. The tree is now being affected by the pen.
And the tree grows a fondness to the pen.
Because the pen can take the tree to many far off places. Because trees, without pens, will stay rooted. But with the pen, it can take this root and spread it wide.
The pen begins to understand itself.
How it can write invisible things.
Beautiful!!!