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The Oak
I want to be as solid as the oak.
I want to stand in the world, tall and mighty.
I want to have my roots stretched deeply into the earth, spamming a million miles.
Yet I sit here. Not an oak but trying.
To be solid and unmoving.
To sway in the breeze and fall like the leaves.
I want to think about nothing. To know nothing. To be nothing. To exist in the void of nothing.
To have the world exist all around me; thriving in its loudness, beautiful in its bland ugliness—and I not feel a thing.
Like the oak.
It is its own something and its own nothing.
© 0506girly
I want to stand in the world, tall and mighty.
I want to have my roots stretched deeply into the earth, spamming a million miles.
Yet I sit here. Not an oak but trying.
To be solid and unmoving.
To sway in the breeze and fall like the leaves.
I want to think about nothing. To know nothing. To be nothing. To exist in the void of nothing.
To have the world exist all around me; thriving in its loudness, beautiful in its bland ugliness—and I not feel a thing.
Like the oak.
It is its own something and its own nothing.
© 0506girly
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