The trees, too, are stripped of their dignity as they are supposed to be in blooming season, growing slow and steady like each patients’ sanities. I want to be standing as tall as a tree— I’ve got plenty of roots, sprouting in different directions as I try to be erect in my high-heeled boots; I’m trying to stand tall, but my knees keep buckling. As I look at the grey sky, with tired, weary eyes, I feel like I am growing with nature, as if she and I are in sync.
Isn’t that what we aspire to be? We try to be normal, but the growing process is informal— just like nature. Our craziness is pure, but ‘pure’ does not mean perfection. One day our branches will cover the whole world. It’s like an oyster making pearls— when we’re irritated, we make something, just like nature. Not even birds can pick and peck at our hurt, as I hold my notebook to my heart. We and nature are like works of art.