I Will Be a Tree

I will be a tree and not some mean bundle of sticks. I am at least a seed, and I will try to grow. I will join my roots into a greater culture, and from that foundation I will reach into heaven; I will spread my leaves in the light; I will be a tree.

Do you know why they gather sticks into bundles? To burn them. I know, it is scary. To grow, to live, to reach for the light of the sun, all that can be dashed in an instant, can all be taken away from you. You seek security in being dead sticks assured in perfect similitude, the lot of you incorporated into one unbreakable bind.

Do what you will; I will risk it, I will live.

There is no sun to reach for, and our culture is dead dirt. In this darkness only one solution shall suffice. The individual must perish from the earth, and all must become one. Join us or die.

I will choose freedom, and if freedom means death, then such is preferable to the life—I dare not profane life so—to the undeath you prescribe. Your cure is worse than the disease, for it is a living death to be without a will, to be subsumed into tyranny. Let the night fall, for the sun will rise.

I am the sun. Together we are god, and I am all. We are ennobled in our fascism, turned from mean animals of flesh into a monolith of steel.

You could not even be sticks were you not from trees, and do you think to build a fire against the forest? I tell you, you will be burned first, will be the kindling that will set the world in ravaging flames. And when the woods and her trees are burned downed, and Hell has had its day, what will you sticks be gathered for? Yet relief will come, and heaven will rain upon our sorry state.

It is time for fire, which is why the sticks must be gathered. We burn down only to build anew, destroy only to create.

If you cannot create, do not blame the industry and talents of others.