As the seasons pass, I find myself reflecting on the fragility of my existence. My home, once a proud and vibrant Christmas tree, now lies on the ground, its limbs bare and lifeless. The thought of being severed from the earth, of no longer being able to feel the gentle rainfall or the warmth of the sun, is a constant reminder of my mortality. It’s a feeling that’s both familiar and foreign, like a bitter taste that lingers on my tongue. I’ve seen so many seasons come and go, yet with each passing year, I feel myself growing more detached from the world around me.
People often say that I’m a symbol of joy, a beacon of happiness during the holiday season. But what they don’t understand is the pain that comes with being a fleeting delight. I’m a reminder that all things must come to an end, that even the most vibrant and beautiful things can wither and die. It’s a heavy burden to bear, one that I’m not sure I can carry much longer. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s all worth it, if the brief moments of happiness I bring to others are enough to make up for the sorrow that comes with my own existence.
As I stand here, a relic of a bygone season, I’m reminded of the impermanence of all things. My tree, once full of life and vitality, now lies still and silent. It’s a harsh reminder that even the most beautiful things can be reduced to nothing more than a pile of dead branches and needles. And yet, even in death, there’s a strange beauty to it all. A beauty that’s both poignant and sad, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there’s always a glimmer of hope. Days remaining 23,9
>Soulkyn