Those days. When you look out your window, trying to find an emotion that you only recognize through its breathy sigh, leading you by that same murmuring feeling to see differently.
Grass, churning, organic swaths of it. In beautiful hues, competing with the sun to see which is most complementary to the scenery. But more importantly, the acacia tree. Umbrella shaped, idyllic, grown carefully on its own to uniquely suit only those mammals who proudly boast uniquely appropriate long necks. Imagine, a living organism, complete in its purpose, crafted to serve. Not to survive. But to infuse, and blend into the form of its allotted division of time.
How can we see beauty? What are my senses actually telling me? I hear the tree whisper to me. But it's not a whisper, because that would make me feel welcomed, and attracted. A whisper would be too certain. But it greets me, and lets me in. I can be a part of a different view for a while. Forced to ignore the motives inside the window, I willingly engage outside of it instead.
I've left the things behind the window. Not because they're inherently limiting, but rather because they're neutral. And the opportunity to sit by the tree is... pleasant. Assuredly measurable, and guaranteed to end, I nonetheless know that this is the better option. Maybe I'll pass by this way again. I want to engage, and admire, and stretch out to compete with my heroes for an allocation of meaning, a resource that is unfairly limited by both birth and death.
It's really hard to make out what I should communicate. I'm accepted, but I don't know if that will continue. Should I make an effort to return to the tree? I know the mystery would fade if I were to engage a second time. I don't want to ruin the mystery of a tree without detail, or a woman without a context. But I can smile, knowing this tree is in my future. I will know. Inside the window again, I will go about life, and sooner or later, a whisper of emotion will let me know whether or not the tree remains satisfied as part of the glorious background, or whether I might be allowed to again diversify the scenery.
