In a world rich with foliage, dense with the smell of stirred earth and dampness, you could feel life as it stirs itself awake as it’s masked by the pianissimo cymbals of swaying leaves. All moves to the silent waltz of daybreak and gentle wind.

As life continues to stir, an aqueous humour surges through the veins of each leaf, siphoning what its twig and branch can bring. Colourless in the absence of light, but rich with life, each still mustering what is essential for preparing for the light. All could not exist without basking in gentle light, though only hoping that dawn does not bring a despotic shine. Prompt, almost garish, with its pedal protrusions from its core, sucking in moisture from nature with seemingly mammalian instinct. Veins so quintessential but minimalist, lacking anastomotic connections within its fabric, its life becomes so obliviously fragile and temporary. So fleeting, carried away in a breeze just barely more turbulent than its comfort.

All is not lost; identical contingencies surround each blade, rocking in similar directions with each gust, clattering the same sounds with turbulence, and siphoning at the same rate. Beautiful, but woefully mundane.

And yet, just a closer observation into one vestigial of a branch, and you could see what is rife with life, its struggles and its passions. What appears like a simple ebb and flow in its vessels, microscopically, is a flow so turbulent and strained that could rival a tumultuous storm. All of this as part of its way of sustaining its own fragility, for one day it will detach from its anchor and slowly wilt unceremoniously. Returning its own calamity to the stems and roots of its tree, continuing the cycle until the weight of the bark, branches and roots can no longer bare its own struggles. But until then, you’d wonder, what conscious appreciation there would be for where it is. Is this seen as a blessing? A curse? Or a neutral disregard as providence? At what point does a blossom understand the weight of its existence being a propagation of its ancestors? Or does that even happen at all? Is there remorse for the departing leaves, or for leaves that progressively siphon less in a jest for some unknown greater good?

Or does no one see past the greater foliage, in its monotonous uniformity, blissfully unaware of its complexities and its tribulations that, collectively, form only a minute part of an entire tree?

Vanilla Tincture

Taken aback by pungent odour, it’s hard to regain your composure once you’ve found a beautiful discord. A cacophany of sorts, or a rude awakening. Or perhaps a sad state of affairs.

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Queen of thorns

I shake hands with the queen of thorns, decorated with the fragrance of jasmine and blooms of petals that shimmer through the moonlight. A friendly and clandestine rendezvous of sorts, to negotiate the daily routine of pain.

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To prospects of misery

To the prospects of misery, be not discouraged of your journey. There are always the easier, less eventful and less spectacular ways of life.

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