Keep the Faith
The Tree
"Sometimes you have to die inside in order to be reborn again."
Gerard Way
It's amazing, the things you find in a forest. There are flowers, giving you something to wander and look upon. There is grass; varying from green to yellow. Birds fly, spreading their wings. There are magnificent trees to stare at in awe and admire. Life is like a forest. There are nests, much like suburbia, and trails and paths like streets.
I see myself as a flower. I'm not like the grass, something to be trudged on and muddied. I'm not a tree, am still young. I am not an animal, using and abusing habitat for my own. But, I am a flower, standing tall and giving hope to the few blades of grass that decide to see my beauty. Although I am a flower, I sometimes feel that I am surrounded by mere blades of dying grass. As if my beauty has been shadowed by the menacing thorns of other grasses and flowers, harassed by the small grasses that seemed larger than they truly were.
My life in the soil, surrounded by those who made me feel inferior, was nothing bright. Animals fed on my leaves. People picked my friends straight from their roots and the earth. Some flowers died, but every spring I was born again, in the same patch of dirt.
Living in the same patch of dirt for a prolonged period of time did not help my particularly scary life in the forest. In the beginning, I showed interest in others, but once my true petals began to show as I sprouted out of the fertile dirt, something changed. Many plants ignored my brilliance in color. I began to wish that I was like other plants; small, indifferent, and blending with these tiny blades that cut like swords.
I found another flower one day, but she was not a flower reborn every year. This flower, through her dull maroon, seemed brilliant; more brilliant than she truly was. I found a beauty within her that seemed original, yet blended with all others. Sadly, this flower died. She wilted her way back toward the roots from whence she came. I didn't want to say goodbye to the flower, but she was gone. That was yet another thing that I could not do about the life in the forest.
Just half way toward the wilting process of this flower did I see a tree. The tree was planted a mere few feet from myself. At first I was afraid of this insignificant stick in the ground, but as time wore on and my flower friend wilted, this stick in the ground began to grow.
Wind would begin to blow as the air grew cold. This tree would whistle in the wind, capturing different tones, but sometimes there would be a familiar tone, a friendly tone that would comfort me as things went colder and colder, day by day. Snow began to fall. I was the only flower left standing. Even the grass was nearly gone. But the tree and I stood to no avail.
Eventually, I died. I wilted into the ground, leaving the tree behind. But I was not a one-time-only flower. I came back. I do every season. By the time I emerged from a silent and cold death, I spread my petals only to find the tree.
He was larger than ever before. His limbs stretched out toward the cool sunlight and blue sky. He had leaves-- yes, leaves! He was a towering oak; strong and powerful. All of the other plants around me ignored this oak. They dared not to tease him, but they dared not speak of him. I felt protected everytime the sunlight rested on his brown bark.
This tree comforted me through the wilting and dying times. He whistled his leaves in the wind. He was such a strong tree that he made me feel like I was higher than the clouds. I guess I did not know much about this tree. He was so high in the air after each dying season that my words eventually could not reach him.
He knew that I was there still-- he still comforted me. He spread out to other flowers within the field of crabgrass and dirt. He whistled his leaves for other flowers to feel alive-- to give them a taste of life.
This tree may not remember nor know me, but I want that tree to know these things I think about him. He is not the same tree, but he is not rotting from termites within his rough exterior. He is an extraordinary tree; one that will prevail those who hold odds against him.
Tree, I want you to know these things I think. I want you to know that when you feel alone up there in the sky, held on such a cloud that I can try my hardest to whistle my leaves for you. Thank you tree, for telling me that wilting was okay-- I would come back. Thank you for telling me that I could be a flower within a bed of grass and mud. You helped me shine my wide array of color to all the flowers, letting them know who I am.
Thank you, tree.
Gerard Way
It's amazing, the things you find in a forest. There are flowers, giving you something to wander and look upon. There is grass; varying from green to yellow. Birds fly, spreading their wings. There are magnificent trees to stare at in awe and admire. Life is like a forest. There are nests, much like suburbia, and trails and paths like streets.
I see myself as a flower. I'm not like the grass, something to be trudged on and muddied. I'm not a tree, am still young. I am not an animal, using and abusing habitat for my own. But, I am a flower, standing tall and giving hope to the few blades of grass that decide to see my beauty. Although I am a flower, I sometimes feel that I am surrounded by mere blades of dying grass. As if my beauty has been shadowed by the menacing thorns of other grasses and flowers, harassed by the small grasses that seemed larger than they truly were.
My life in the soil, surrounded by those who made me feel inferior, was nothing bright. Animals fed on my leaves. People picked my friends straight from their roots and the earth. Some flowers died, but every spring I was born again, in the same patch of dirt.
Living in the same patch of dirt for a prolonged period of time did not help my particularly scary life in the forest. In the beginning, I showed interest in others, but once my true petals began to show as I sprouted out of the fertile dirt, something changed. Many plants ignored my brilliance in color. I began to wish that I was like other plants; small, indifferent, and blending with these tiny blades that cut like swords.
I found another flower one day, but she was not a flower reborn every year. This flower, through her dull maroon, seemed brilliant; more brilliant than she truly was. I found a beauty within her that seemed original, yet blended with all others. Sadly, this flower died. She wilted her way back toward the roots from whence she came. I didn't want to say goodbye to the flower, but she was gone. That was yet another thing that I could not do about the life in the forest.
Just half way toward the wilting process of this flower did I see a tree. The tree was planted a mere few feet from myself. At first I was afraid of this insignificant stick in the ground, but as time wore on and my flower friend wilted, this stick in the ground began to grow.
Wind would begin to blow as the air grew cold. This tree would whistle in the wind, capturing different tones, but sometimes there would be a familiar tone, a friendly tone that would comfort me as things went colder and colder, day by day. Snow began to fall. I was the only flower left standing. Even the grass was nearly gone. But the tree and I stood to no avail.
Eventually, I died. I wilted into the ground, leaving the tree behind. But I was not a one-time-only flower. I came back. I do every season. By the time I emerged from a silent and cold death, I spread my petals only to find the tree.
He was larger than ever before. His limbs stretched out toward the cool sunlight and blue sky. He had leaves-- yes, leaves! He was a towering oak; strong and powerful. All of the other plants around me ignored this oak. They dared not to tease him, but they dared not speak of him. I felt protected everytime the sunlight rested on his brown bark.
This tree comforted me through the wilting and dying times. He whistled his leaves in the wind. He was such a strong tree that he made me feel like I was higher than the clouds. I guess I did not know much about this tree. He was so high in the air after each dying season that my words eventually could not reach him.
He knew that I was there still-- he still comforted me. He spread out to other flowers within the field of crabgrass and dirt. He whistled his leaves for other flowers to feel alive-- to give them a taste of life.
This tree may not remember nor know me, but I want that tree to know these things I think about him. He is not the same tree, but he is not rotting from termites within his rough exterior. He is an extraordinary tree; one that will prevail those who hold odds against him.
Tree, I want you to know these things I think. I want you to know that when you feel alone up there in the sky, held on such a cloud that I can try my hardest to whistle my leaves for you. Thank you tree, for telling me that wilting was okay-- I would come back. Thank you for telling me that I could be a flower within a bed of grass and mud. You helped me shine my wide array of color to all the flowers, letting them know who I am.
Thank you, tree.