And in the end, I guess we all get buried in the dirt. Buried in the dirt, decaying into dusty memories that fade into the past, eventually blowing away into tiny specs of nothing.
And I suppose a little of our dust might be left behind, left to fertilise the soil, which helps to grow the tree of life: a fragment that does not leave; but rather becomes a leaf on this infinite life tree.
But then, in autumn, this leaf, and our life that is no longer, will blow away. Blow away, again, into the wind and into the past, where our dirt and our dusty memories will not blossom again, be reborn again, or be a part of a tree that no longer needs us.
Because there is no denying it: once our body is buried, it is buried within a box; a box made of wood unlike the wood of the trunk, which forms this tree of life. We cannot keep growing; we cannot ask our dust to form life’s branches, or to produce our leaf, while we hold our breath forever as our memory on this earth fades.
Do not wait until your last breath to grow your leaf upon life’s tree. Do not wait for your dust to form the soil, to nurture the tree of life, when you’re no longer living to inhale its vitality, no longer alive to keep your memory from fading.
Once you are gone, perhaps you are not gone forever; but you and your dusty memories cannot live, cannot grow on the tree of life forever.
And perhaps life is just a metaphor: an infinitely growing tree.
But then again, perhaps life isn’t, and the only thing infinite is ‘forever’.
Perhaps there is no dirt or dusty memories, just the decay of death.
Perhaps it is too hard to admit that once we’re gone, we are indeed ‘gone forever’.
And if that’s the case, perhaps you should consider: don’t wait until you’re gone, once inside a wooden box, to understand that there may not be a new leaf to turn over, or other life that you can live … because life is not a metaphor, my darling: it’s not a tree—it’s not infinite—at all.