You know, the birds always land on you to rest. They sit, content, all day, under the shade of your branches. Water droplets from your dewy leaves, fall on their wonderful, white, wings. You can hear them singing. Singing songs all day. It is only when dusk comes, and the sky becomes a deep blue with flickers of orange and pink, that they fly away. Together. But you know they’ll come back tomorrow. In fact, they’ll be back every day. So you don’t have to worry. Oh, how I wish to be a bird. But how I wish to be many things other than me. I wonder. If I had leaves, would I be loved? If I was alive, would I be admired? If I was beautiful, would I belong? No.
No, I could never belong, because I will never have, or be those things. Am I destined to serve a lifetime sentence of loneliness? While you sit there, with all the other beautiful trees, and rustle in the sweet wind? I can’t feel it, you know. I can’t feel the wind. I can’t feel anything. I am locked in a prison of isolation. Detachment. Alienation. I will never be free.