Page 2: The Tree I Became
When I think about writing my past selves, I’m in a tug-of-war with my memories, trying to choose among the hundreds of versions of me that once existed. Some are long gone. Some are dead and still rotting slowly in the depths of my heart. Some have fused into what “I am” now — the one writing this.
Throughout this, I’m going to strip myself naked and exhibit the art in progress.
Among those hundreds of nameless versions, I chose a handful to transfer to my canvas — the ones that were most memorable, the most impactful, both for me and for others, captured in the pages of my subjective album.
First and foremost, the grove. The individual trees — the ones who gave birth to me, who suffered through intense heat, drowned in floods, who survived and sacrificed. Even from the start, the seed was different. Mutated. Unique within that grove.
He was a clean slate — no chalk marks from the past. A soundboard, echoing what he heard, saw, and felt.
The seed grew into a lush sapling. Then a young plant bearing bright, intense flowers. He offered shade to others, gave shelter. His roots were deep, intertwined with the grove.
Then he was dug up and planted far, far away — in a foreign land, away from the soil he knew. In that place, the young tree froze in winter, burned in summer. His roots struggled against the hard, unwelcoming ground.
They thought he was dead. They nearly cut him down. But when the saw touched him, he felt pain — because beneath the rot, he was still alive.
Over time, he grew older. Sank roots like anchors. That hard ground, once alien, made him stand taller through erosion.
He became a different species, with characteristics unfamiliar to his grove. He shed the names they gave him. He formed his own identity.
All those versions of him stood strong in their own beliefs. The seed believed in cause. The sapling believed in eternal truth. The young tree believed in coincidence — sometimes in nothing at all.
That tree is me — a new species, bearing fruit that is authentic and uniquely mine. I accept the inherent meaninglessness of life on this absurd highway — and still try to make meaning within my existence.
I know this tree isn’t my final form. He’ll evolve again. Maybe even transcend.
That’s what I call my art — woven through the threads of my identity, my questions, my feelings, my journey, and my answers.
My magnum opus.
Introspection, you are my friend and my enemy. You deserve both heaven and hell. You will be venerated, and you will be damned.
