That’s what makes up the fibers of the desk at which I sit. My thoughts rampant, as I’m left staring at the light brown textures; forever lost within their sporadic rings. Trapped.

The outside world is fading from my mind, as events and tribulations overwhelm my being. Question, fired by the fuel of doubt, is embedded in the forefront of these conceptual images.

Is it fixable? Is any of it within the realm of repair?

Or is it just another piece of trash, recycled beyond use and left to dissipate in the wind; torn from the sight of ghouls that represent what was?

Is there anything left to fight for?

A conflict, easily solved by the tree from which this desk was crafted. One that supports an abundance of branches, as they stray in all directions; chasing the light in hopes to get enough subsistence before the darkness falls. Battling and warring within the same system, competing for the sheer right to survive. This, of course, is nature’s way.

When the tree reaches overabundance, it must shed the excess, or risk dying all together from the sheer weight of its existence. But the tree does not have a mind to choose, nor the ability. The one species on the planet that truly does, has squandered the potential of that ability, and now it seems it must shed the archaic excess in order to survive.

But is that the proper way? Is there any morality in the laws of nature that govern us?

The natural system cares not for morals, but only for what is. And this is the thought that plagues me – the desk taunting me with its hypnotic pattern. The wood taunting its killer, reminding him that the clock is ticking, and that time is running short. While the world chooses to ignore the issues, compartmentalizing their thoughts and hiding away in their bubbles, the wood reminds me of what’s outside of my mind.

And so, I stay, staring into the circles of the desk. An attempt to find solace in the isolation of a visual stimulus; all the while knowing as soon as my vision breaks away, and my focus returns, that the thoughts will stop moving and they will begin to suffocate me within their still binds. Choosing the path is never easy, much like finding the one limb that needs to be cut, in order to save the entire tree.

Our world has too many rotten limbs. The wood has become brittle, and the pendulum of the trunk can bear no more. The anchorage is failing, and we need to cut away what is rotten.

We need to unite for the good of the tree.

Or we will end up as the dead ghoul where I sit to write. The wooden carcass, that reminds me of the tree I branch from and how I must fight to preserve it.

                         But am I really the one to say? Or perhaps I’m the one to fall away?

The circles always taunting, with the thoughts forever daunting, as I sit slowly seething, attempting to find a better meaning.

A better solution for the problems that surround.

With a singular voice I become bound.

Absorbing what is closest to true,

Til the tree of our humanity, rises anew.


Adam Gainer

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