Perhaps I Am Nothing But a Fool

The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing—perhaps the trees are absorbing my pain, adding new sorrows to their own. The sight of the withered trees grows even drier, and the pale hues of autumn become more pronounced with every passing second. Was I created to suffer? I lost my purpose long ago, and now even my curiosity is slowly fading… The only thing I possess is my pain-filled self, held tightly in my grasp. I have diminished myself; the outpouring of my mind has become foolish to everyone. Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.

The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing, yet perhaps my foolishness is increasing, as primal thoughts seize my mind and render my thinking elementary. I feel as though I have found myself among the trees, just as I saw in my dream last night—I crawl, I cannot walk, yet I continuously strive. Trees signify effort; despite all their pain, they still wait, enduring, clinging to the hope of the slightest drop of water to live… How I wish I could look at life with as much hope as they do—I merely watch them, laden with my own pain and inherent nihilism. Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.

The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing; I sense the forgottenness embedded in their thick bark. I wonder, will they forget me too? These are the small memories that make up life—do I have any memories to create in my humble existence? Am I worthy enough to forge memories? I am nothing more than an object forgotten beneath the leaves that carpet the forest floor. Trying to live is the greatest disgrace of my life… Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.

The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing; my eyelids grow heavy—I want to sleep, to forget. I long to forget where I am, what I do, what I desire, every tiny fragment of my existence. Life is the greatest of my pains; attempting to keep pace with it inflicts an even deeper agony. I want to crawl as in my dream, to be unable to reach, to pass indifferently by those I know, and to fall anew into the storms raging within me. Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.

The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing; I keep producing words to write—not to be understood, but to express. Will my pains lessen when I reveal them? Will writing restore the hopes I have lost? I constantly ponder my disappearing goals and vanishing hopes. As one grows, one cannot reclaim the goals lost; the only thought that occupies me is the self that has dissolved in the passage of time. I feel like a new person every day, yet nothing ever changes. Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.