This is the story of a young tree born to the ground, the story of a young tree planted to the ground, and his roots dug into the earths core. and every single day his dreams and aspirations became stronger and stronger, as his eyes began to open he looks into the distance to see his family, to see his family fade away, but he had a dream of one day growing tall and one day losing his roots. And every single day it began to rain, from the morning until the night, until the next, for months. And day in and day out the wildlife looked down upon him, they told him, they said, "You'll never be anything, you will never be what you want to be, your dreams, they're pointless, they're pointless." But the rain continued to fall, and his branches grew longer and longer, and he grew taller. He grew taller day in and day out, until his eyes grew above the tree line, and he was looking down upon them. In the distance he sees the top of the house, the roof peeking above the tree line as his eyes did. He sees a light in the darkness, and he wants to take his opportunity. He wants to take his opportunity and lift his roots from the ground. So he does. He lifts one leg at a time, his roots coming undone, his skin changing, fading, from a rich brown to an old gray. He walks to the light, days pass and months pass, and he finally approaches the house. From the four pane window the light shines out into his eyes, calling him. So he walks to the door. He walks to the door and grabs the door knob to turn it, and he opens it, he walks inside one foot at a time, and he closes the door behind him. He closes the door behind him as the deadbolt locks, with a loud echo through the house the deadbolt clicks. So loud as he looks into the living room, to see empty spots where paintings used to hang, family pictures, and a discoloring of the floor where a sofa used to sit, where the family used to live. The sound of the deadbolt still clicks through the house as a loud echo, he looks up to see cables where a ceiling fan used to hang. The house, it seems so vacant. So many years have passed. He turns to the four pane window to look outside to see the light, the light looks into his eyes and he looks into it, and no words are exchanged, but he understands every single word he says. The light says, "Go to the door and unlock your full potential. Open the door and go outside." So he says, "I will." He walks to the door as the hard wood beneath his feet begins to crumble, as his branches begin to disintegrate, he walks to the door to open the door, to see the light in his eyes to be reborn again.

Staring through to the back of my eyes, but where is my research? Sitting in the cold, surrounded by faces. My bones are broken, but, god, I can't feel them. Our lungs are healed again, but, god, we can't breathe. As air fills the empty space where my soul used to sleep, I take my final breath. I can feel our hearts beating, dying, and I can feel our hearts beating to the silence. And every moment that we lay on this cold floor, at arms length, I seem to be growing more and more lifeless, as if our love is fading. And every moment that we lay on this floor I continue to say, Shake me until I can feel again. Shake me until I have something to feel again. Shake me until our hearts can beat as one again. Wait. Stay.

Bring me here Its so hard to see you clearly So come close and hold my hands for the last time. I can feel you, so transparent. I can feel you. No heat, So cold, Winter air. I can feel you. But all I can do is lie here and feel my body simply losing touch at a loss of soul and losing love as if my heart is numb as if my mind is done Oh How long, How long have I been sleeping? Oh How long, How long have I been dreaming?

The wind hits my face, The trees seem to hold me tight, The earth begins to inhale, but where is my guide? Lying, staring at the stars, Imagining a brand new world, to hide in as if all hope is lost. The earth seems so dead inside. Who am I supposed to be when no one else knows? Who am I supposed to follow when the footsteps wash away? I feel as if I'm living a lie, acting as if I can walk along, but lying in the mud with broken legs and broken bones, dying, in the waters that first gave me life. I feel as if I've died twice. Every night that I come home, I come home to the same house. I walk straight to my bedroom and turn the knob to open the door to a pitch black room. I put my hand on the switch to turn the light on, just to turn if off again, because I know where i'm going. It seems as if its muscle memory from this point on. Every step that I take the floor beneath my feet begins to creak, and I walk closer and closer, passing my bed, to the desk that stands before me. I flick on the lamp and grab the chair, and pull it back as it etches a mark into the hard wood floor, from every single day and every single moment through these years that i've pulled this chair out and sat in this same exact spot. So I sit. I sit on the vinyl of the chair and reach my arm down to grab the splintered wood that lies beneath. I pull it forward, as close as I can to the desk and look at this paper, sitting symmetrically on this desk. I grab the pen as the lamp illuminates the desk, and the paper, and the pen that I hold in my hand. I grip the pen tightly and i put the ink onto this paper, and begin to etch four letters, four letters that spell out the word "Dear", because thats all I can write, thats all i can make it through. Because every day for years on end i've sat at this desk, trying to write you another letter, because you said you would be there for me. In the beginning, you were there, you replied to all of my letters in the beginning, and always told me to hide in my pretend place, because you said that I couldn't stand tall, you said that I couldn't stand tall on my own two feet. but I'm not hiding in these pretend places anymore. And every single day I come home and I open the door to my bedroom and walk inside and walk to the same desk. Every single day I pull it out and etch a mark into the hardwood floor and pull in the chair after sitting. I grab the pen and put it, put the ink to the paper and write down "Dear", because "Dear" is all I can make it through. Every single day i'm nervous for a reply, because I don't want to hear that I need to hide in these pretend places. Because I don't. Because I'm done hiding in these pretend places. So i'm not hiding in these pretend places anymore.