Skin old like an oak tree

Only bark has left of me, old and rough like an oak. A hollow tree that only bothers lush nature. Do you know that, here, in this creepy woods we are all equal? Peeled humans. The moment until the last fall on the earth and until the last leaf fall on the ground… fragile branches that don’t attain even a fraction of the burden. Looks worse than sawing cuts, looks that shred the roots and cut wood. Mutilated in different parts, we seem scary and unnecessary, standing here. I feel like I’m migrating from my own skin, constantly. I’m afraid that my fruits will be visible because they will be used for some other purposes. They will be torn apart by dirty hands, that will dig extra holes inside me. I identify myself with the tree because that’s exactly what we are sometimes. We left the roots where they were, inside us, unmoved, feeling frightened by someone else’s soil and unknown paths. We live for a number of years, but our souls can be thousands of years older than ourselves. Do you believe in this miracle? Using the rings on the tree, we can determine its age and follow its development. Who’s following us? Entire centuries of time and death, incompleteness and birth, engraved in us.

The anatomical tree structure is studied on specific segments, while we study ourselves each time we feel the scars on our bodies from the previous battles with ourselves. And we observe and analyze our anomalies, unconscious of the beauty to which every one of them radiates and makes us stronger. It’s our dendrochronology. But still, we need heat and light… The trees are able to adapt to different conditions in nature, aren’t we are, too? Are you aware of the connection of nature with human one? Destroying nature, we destroy ourselves. We are grasping for air, stuck in our own wrong decisions. And the crochet, in the end, becomes only a distant thought, a photograph of her beauty trapped somewhere in our heads. And the hive seems deaf and empty, and no one thinks to stop and hear its silence. The tree has bark, a man has skin. The tree has a root, a person has an identity. And the core of that emptiness is the same as theirs. The man screams from within, the tree cuts in pieces and decays. Do you see the irony deep in the tragedy of these related destinies? Autumn does to trees what the pain does to a man. And tears fall in the muddy paths leaving them salty and impenetrable for the next steps, as the leaves leave their branches bare and cold without touching them ever again.

People are passing by and admire the outer appearance of a split tree in the spring, but they don’t touch the inside of it while their fingers go through your shattered skin, but they don’t make love to your soul. They don’t know what is below, how many times the soul had to die in order to be born again as a tree with the most delicate flowers. So, can you identify yourself with this seemingly firm and proud tree with the bark stronger than the external influences? Although disappointed with its ignorance, it’s still unshakeable in its intention not to do wrong to others. It doesn’t know about evil. It’s not immune to the storm, however, stands still in one place. You can’t resist the hurricane in you and at the same time hold tightly coat to protect yourself. Then you realize, only the sun can make you take it off. What’s that blow that shatters your world as you blend with the earth and become land on which other versions of you step on, in another life, in another scenario? Because here, in this life, we are all equal. You can go against your nature, but you can also become it and enjoy the inner part of nature, in which you exist and that’s what separates you from the hollow tree.

The power of thinking, the power of movement and the power of speech. The next time you find yourself in a creepy forest in your head, think about what you need to look for. You will persistently turn around in circles, over and over again until day and night are slowly changing… it’s your cave. A hole in which you disappear like a badger, a state of nirvana in the night with teary eyes. Afterward, go and scream on the plants that no longer makes you feel alive. Look for roots that remind you of agony, and live in it. Bury the land you spit into something to fulfill your bare soul. Tear your skin apart to feel something, let it be rough over and over again, taste the blood and patch your lips. Think. What do you have to discover in yourself to be able to hear the whisper or the scream of nature you ignore, not accepting it as equal to yours?

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