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Arbora
By: Alexander R. Wilkerson

With the light crashing down upon my crown, I suspect a false fever. A wide grin cracks open my cranial facade, sparking enlightenment. My feet are firmly implanted in a thick layer of complex and starving green ivy, and I am able to sense a wet, corporeal steam-heat. Through my nostrils it breathes, clouding all perception. Helios’s broken arrows ignite the fallen arbor and dampen the already-wet canopy of lush green leaves. The emotional stance of this sea of oaks and maple is perfectly matched to that of my own, an ecosystem worthy of my instinctual recognition. Self-sustaining and independent of alien corruption, it is a universe in itself. This wood is my absolute value; I could dwell among the lush life, within nakedness so complete that the Fruit of Humility grown within my mind would not affect Adam himself. My delusions of grandeur need be amplified into a state of reality and sensibility. For the trees are wide enough that I can search around it but once, and search it again nevermore. So tall are they that Man’s ascension to Mars require nothing but the selection of the right branch. Alas, such ambitions are certainly wonderful but will ultimately end with death and destruction (Mars will see to that himself). Let us hope that Man will pick the strongest, dullest branch and not the sharp one easily breakable. This forest revives in me a feeling of importance, a feeling that says I am a part of something much greater, yet I am still able to idle into a hide and watch the universe grow before my eyes. This is the only true ambition that any sentient being will possess: the realization that he or she is a part of something larger, that one can affect the overall outcome of affection. As I scrutinize the wood about, I notice the hairs on the back of my neck nullify themselves into serenity. And although I feel the eyes of the uncivilized, wild, and weird burn into my soul I am not bothered. Such paranoia is common disease inside of my wood, and I have grown immune. The very foundation of all this arborage is not plain and ordinary! Wild vegetation and life grow with a sense of organized algorithm. The solid foundation’s parabolic sways and hills falsified into ravines perfectly reflect the extreme that is my attitude. Whether or not the trees dig deeply or lightly into the ego, I experience an ever-changing state of mind with a common (and forever unfortunate) base: curiosity. This universe is truly my own, a place where I can explain my Earthly problems to the simplest of organisms only to receive the simplest answers, which are all that I need to gain His acceptance. I vow to protect my forest and my well being. We are one in the same; it is the Yin to my Yang. However, just like the impossibility of a candle with a dark flame, I give to it what it cannot return to me. After a day of inquiry, I come across a single blossom in the heart of my forest, bathed in ultra-violent purple light. The mere sight of it consumes me. Vibrantly green in the stem and leaf, it is topped with six lazily sharp petals of black. After a close observation of this creation worthy of the envy of Rappaccini, I find that its nectars are too sweet for the largest of insects. Nor will any one of His creatures near the flower, for its perfumes are too good to be true in the sense of God. However, I am human and proceed with the obvious action. As I approach, I notice a brilliant white glow emanating from it’s pollinated epicentre. The source of the latter belongs to none other than the long-discarded halo of Lucifer, now too small for his big and misunderstood head. It feeds the flower and nourishes it, but I soon discover that I am not able to compare myself with that flower. I cannot describe this feeling that I get when I grasp this flower with all of my senses. It is too great, too uncertain to be transcribed into Roman characters (or any character for that matter). I begin to obsess over this blossom, and I shove all of my love and thought into it. I soon realize that in doing so I receive nothing in return, save my free gazing. If I love too much, it will never return what I deserve. Soon after, I begin to crave attention myself. It seems as if this flower is sparking greed and jealousy within my ego. I will never give in and become sedated with the drug of lust. I divide my undivided attention from the flower and return to the forest with which I can compare. I soon begin to over-calculate the expectations that I owe myself, for the flower has given itself reason to remain existent inside of my soul, along with my mind. Lucifer’s flower is in the heart of my forest; therefore it is also the heart of my soul. The hand of Man is not welcome here.

Article Source: http://journal.ilovephilosophy.com

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