Spoke to a tree

and it said to me:

"I'm worried that I've gone bad.

My leaves are looking awfully drab.

They are turning brown

and falling down.

What a horrible sight to see."

"Darling, no! You are just ahead of your time,

The other trees will follow close behind.

Come this November,

you'll hardly remember

feeling different at all,

This is just what happens in fall.

You're a beautiful sight to me!"

#fall

There is nothing so mesmerizing or terrifying as water at night. The surface hides much beneath its depths in the best light, but in the dark that vaguely translucent nature of water becomes opaque as an obsidian mirror, and the shallowest pool can seem as deep as the sea. How alluring it is to see the ripples dance across the reflection of shadows. We feel a temptation to jump through that mysterious façade, to measure the fathoms of oblivion. If we should take the plunge and feel the darkness consume us, if the cold should render us momentarily stunned, if we should burst back into the world to inhale all the senses that were washed away and gasp for mundane air, made precious by deprivation and shock, would it not be ecstasy? The thrill of uncertainty offers the ultimate seduction and the most tangible bliss. But, more often than not, we do not take the plunge, not because we are afraid of the anticipated euphoria, but because we know that, in such water, we are entirely out of our element.

The baby's breath blooms drying on my windowsill have been there for months. I imagine that if I picked them up and squeezed one, it would crush and crumble between my fingers, making a dust of sorts. I could put it on my tongue, and it might dissolve, and then I could see more stars than other people, although I could never test the theory. Or I might just end up with a bad taste in my mouth, sweet and stale and papery. But they might bloom inside me if I swallowed them. Wouldn't that be lovely?

I could have flowers growing through my organs, and you could see the faint outlines of them in my arms, all the way up to my fingertips. That would be very pretty. If I happened to die, they could take my heart out to look at it, and it would be filled with little white flowers coming out of the aorta, or maybe there would be roots. I don't know if the roots would be in my heart, brain, or stomach. Any of those would make sense to me. But before I died, I could have a garden inside me. And if someone asked, "Why does it look like there are flowers inside your skin?", I alone of all people would have the privilege of answering, "Because there are."

I would be so lucky.

But I guess it would get tiresome, like all things eventually do. The flowers inside me would have to die, just like the dried flowers that I put on my tongue and swallowed to birth them in the beginning. They would wither away until you couldn't see them under my skin, and you wouldn't see them coming out of my heart, only fine white dust like an addict, which I am.

Which we all are. To beauty, and to nice things, and to feeling special.

Oh, how we love that. I would have my fix for awhile, but then I would itch for more.

Maybe then I would dry lavender flowers on my windowsill.

Here I am again. It's like my brain is an empty alleyway, littered with garbage bins and broken glass bottles. This is supposed to be something I'm good at. I Write. That's my thing, isn't it? It's certainly the only one of my talents that I have a vague chance of making a living with. Singing, mediocre piano skills, poor ukulele playing, and baking (provided that the result doesn't have to be visually appealing) are hardly moneymakers. And writing won't be if I can't get something onto this stupid screen. 

There is nothing more discouraging and intimidating than a blank canvas. Some call it freeing, and maybe they're right, but it doesn't matter that the cell door is open if you'll still be penniless outside the jail. That's all my brain is right now: penniless, an empty pocket. The same tricks of phrasing and word choice don't work more than once, maybe twice if you tweak it right in the rerun version, so I can't just do what I did before to be "good". I feel like one of those songs that was Good Stuff in 2014, on the Top 40 list, everyone knew it, everyone liked it, everyone sang along to it, and then it was suddenly old and tired and stupid, and now when it's played at parties, people groan internally because the DJ doesn't have a clue. 

Maybe if I went back to an old story, that would help. 

Oh dear. No no, that won't work. That one's horribly written. That one is badly disguised satire that I didn't even understand at the time. That one is filled with unnecessary, obnoxious angst. That one is...not bad, actually. This is pretty good. I like these characters, and the plot. And I've written hardly anything for it, so there's nothing to hate yet. Maybe I'll just start writing it.

But where do I start?

In the middle of a scene? A flashback? Foreshadowing? Should I drop in suddenly on some action or start at the Very Beginning? What is the beginning? Is this story too complex for me to write well? Will I waste all my time questioning my abilities instead of actually working? Oh boy, you guessed it!

So the page is still empty, I've spent the last hour trying to find the right ambient music to get me in a Writing Mood, I can't figure out where to start on the old story so I scrapped that idea entirely, and now I need a new, fresh idea when there is none to be had. Oh, and don't forget the tabs of social media and Google searches I have open, all for the sake of "inspiration". I will never have a moneymaker, a painted canvas, or fulfillment of any sort.

But I must continue to tell my friends and family how great it is to write.

My body tingles lightly as the numbness spreads

My heavy heart sinks to the pit of my stomach

The nausea bubbles and rises

Higher

Higher

Higher

Overwhelming my senses

Uncontrollable tears flooding down my face.

Like Atlas, I am left buckling under the weight of this world

As reality sets in.

Now I am truly alone.

There are different beliefs about death. The point in life where someone takes their last breath. No one knows when it will come. But one thing's for sure, even though we know that it can happen in any moment, life goes on.

Beautiful moments of living. Make memories with your loved ones and don't let the thought of dying scare you.

Some say that there is a place of rest for all the souls that leave us. They are waiting for us in another spiritual home. A place for the departed spirits. Others believe that people who perform good acts shall receive a reward in the next life. That living doesn't end. It goes on. All in all life is a journey.

Enjoy this adventure called life. Death is faced by all. When it's time to go, be not afraid. Keep faith and don't worry about leaving earth. There's another treasure that comes after this temporal state. A gift that approaches to all. It's an eternal spirit life after death.