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‘Everything in life is writable about’ so says Sylvia

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I met a tree


As I wandered deep in introspection, a straining in the the trees to my right side startled me from inside my head. My eyes became curious to the unfamiliar noise and searched to find its source. A tired looking tree creaked now and then from the strain of the winds.


I didn’t think much of it that first day. I thought, ‘me too’ and continued my walk. 


The next day as I climbed up the same muddy hill, enjoying the squelch of the muds and the feeling of strain in my breath at my endeavour to reach the top without losing my footing. The noise came again. I think that day I was waiting for it. So I took my time to pause and look and listen.


I wondered whether it was a cry, or a sigh, or a moan or roar. Perhaps it was the sound of endurance, as the trunk dug its roots deep in that muddy hill and embraced its *** air. Holding fast as its branches birthed the first signs of Spring.


She was a tired yet mighty brown. Her emptiness and  flakey bark looked like she was too long in this world. Was it a sad sound? Or was it defiance? 


Her noises grew louder, sharper, as I continued to enquire. We settled on the fact that she wasn’t going anywhere. That those same winds that nipped and stung at my cheeks, reminding me I was alive, were no match for her determination to withstand them. I think, like me, she might even have been enjoying the awakening they delivered to her creaking ancient bones. Stretching out the still. Pushing her into existence.


I wondered did she always announce her being to passers by on windy days. Or if the ancient whisperings were reserved for those who were ready or needing to notice.


I did not toy with any extraordinary notions of being particular in my sentience, but perhaps in my curiosity to make sense of my perceptions.


She was just a tree after all. I couldn’t even define her, in the absence of her leaves and my ignorance to her species. Though I thought that did not matter much to her or I. 


I kept distant in my observations that day. I think I sensed a humility at my own insignificance. But something passed between us. And some might call it madness, but I would call it acceptance.


She shared with me her courage and I understood something about her pleasure in the wind delivering her voice.


Again I thought ‘me too’ and not wanting to linger too long, continued the same path to the top of that muddy hill. Hesitating at the top with one last glance, reassuring us both I’d be back.


When I walk again today, I think I might venture off the muddy path and linger in her shadows awhile and breathe her in. And hope that she will gift this passer by with the strength to accept my adoration of the wilds. 


Why has this been posted in kinky sex confessions when I posted it in online munch... I mean there is a very subtle metaphor, but it’s so subtle... hmmm 


Really mods... it’s not kinky 🤷🏻‍♀️

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