day 111

I have two scenarios (or scenes of writing):

1.
behind the lush vegetation, stood man, against the wind and beneath the clouds. I cannot see him. I imagine him, first the trees, then the man.

The trees are between us - the man and I - and yet I know he is there.

(What is a tree?)

And I imagine, he is short; a dwarf, not quite a man, but resemble one enough to be called a man.

He now stands behind one tree - the tree.

He is not looking at me; I am looking at the tree, before I am looking at him. the world is before us - with that he leaves, 'Farewell!'
'I'll see the shade that you become.'

It does not matter if he is there or gone. I see the tree.

And the longer I wait, the more the tree disappears - by dominating the landscape.

and there I am, alone, with the world - faced with my own white decay of a rotten bark.

And the wind carries the tree's enduring message, "I live on, somewhere else."
IT mocks me - for IT endures longer, somewhere else.

And I, alone, with the world - with my vengeance.

I prune the remaining trees before me,
so that they may never look like the big domineering tree again.

"Farewell!"

2.
There is no tree but its bare trunk and branches.
The trunk is rotten to the core. I know, I chopped it.

The branches are full of life. I know, I ate the termites.

And there is no one except me.

Until, He stands a distance away and stares at me.

I flee.


After which, I am able to imagine a third scene:

3.

No one is there. No tree; no man.