Dreaming Trees

(From: An alarming number of confessional monologues, April 8th 2015)

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How do you count the musings of a muse?

How do you quantify the song of a songbird? – The eyes of Argus are always watching.

Today, I let work be work and, with my eyes closed, I enjoyed the dry rain of the sycamores. Their song is eternal: it never preaches, it never judges. It simply goes on, faintly whispering its silent secrets, passing them on and on from one zephyr to the next, on a cyclic, never-ending journey.

Sometimes I wonder whether Argyle knew about all of this. I wonder if he ever asked Jupiter: “Jupiter, have you ever listened to the sycamores, and wondered what they are always on about? It’s like they know all the secrets in the world, but they’re never telling. It’s strange, you know. You never stop to think about it, and once you do, you just so happen to have passed the right moment; you miss it by just an instant. And then it’s gone, and you forget what you were thinking about; and then you shrug thinking it couldn’t have been anything important, and then you keep on going about your day. That’s just the way things go sometimes, you know. Some people never find the right moment, because they’re impatient and they never wait long enough for anything significant to happen. They lose patience. But me, I’m different I think. Sometimes, I wonder whether I miss it because I always wait for too long, and then it passes me by, and before I realize that it occurred, it’s already gone again; it went away never to return.”

And then, what would Jupiter have said?

Jupiter is not a type of many words. I wonder what he would have said, but to be entirely truthful with you, I don’t know. Couldn’t imagine. He’s a strange one, it’s often difficult to figure out what he is thinking.

And so, while the sycamores were whispering and while Argyle kept on contemplating the meaning of his existence in my imagination, the heavy curtains of nightfall began to draw over the land. Eventually, I left my secretive friends to find more elusive company: I quickly grow weary of substance and stability; of intelligible truth. I always tend to leave it for a more undefinable essence which never runs in danger of boring me with its irritable explicability. I guess I just can’t help it.