I feel the Death of a Tree

The snow is subsiding in its relentless tide.

I have successfully tilted in order to allow snow to accumulate in my hollows. It is a nice defeatist feeling. I repeatedly ease the process along by chanting my mantra, "It is okay. I am just dying. I am fine."

But if you were to look at me now, you would see that my roots have started to show. They have crept up out of the ground, in search of what I do not know. "They" seem to be no longer part of me. Their instincts and purpose have always been to preserve and seek out life. So it seems like my roots are launching a coup against me. The despot who has resigned himself to the final lonesome path of no return.

So it interests and humors me with morbid curiosity to see just how much and how far they are willing to go despite my will, despite my "rational" choice.

Yet it betrays me to see how a part of me yearns for hope, for life. They say that we can never lie to ourselves. Now I am starting to fear that they are right. That I can not even commit myself to an act of self-destruction and spare myself the slow process of dying. That I cannot take the cowardly way out. That I have to continue my ordeal. This hollow and sad existence.

And all around me, on the periphery, healthy specimens of trees mock me in their state of completion.

Some roots go deep. Very deep.