The Death of a Tree

So I have died. I am no more. The eternal dustbin of the abyss. The fault-line of nebulous grey lines which are continuously tumbling into and unto each other, mixing and mashing and in effect delineating and forming.

I have died. The once great tree. Now a sordid lifeless and meaningless form. Now I contribute back to the earth. Now I am what I am.

Poets when passing me will sense my struggle and write about me. Musicians will crack their craniums in attempts to represent me. Artists will try to transmit my essence in graphics and form. They will do all these, as if my whole essence of unbecoming was worthy of documentation and celebration.

And oh, how the other trees laugh at my demise. At my expense. For all that I am contributing feeds them and fuels their leaves. Yet, for all their brilliance and self-righteousness, they do not see that one day they will be joining me too.

Then when they are as I am, when we merge in nothingness and coarse through the veins of other younger trees as particles of nourishing life, only then when will they stop laughing and realize that death comes to all. It comes to all: even the young, even the weak ones who hide from the rain in the shelter of others and siphon their earth essence, even the strong ones, even the pretty ones, even the ones who tell themselves that their self-serving daily actions are for the benefit of others.

So I do not despise or loathe them. Instead I pity them and the fate that they will face unknowingly. At least me, who has fallen knows how to fall.

And yet, it feels alright. It feels natural as I say goodbye to what I am. Goodbye to what I was. Without all that I am, all that I need to ensure my survival, I am free from expectations and obligations. I don't need to live anymore. I am free. You may say that death accords no freedom, I say, "Join me and we will see."