Tired, and on my bare chest I feel drops of sweat. In the whole empty field, it's just me and the tree, and for a second, breathing, I look at it. I admire it's girth and how normal it looks from the outside. But I waited much too long. I pick up my axe and I write the first sentence. And I see it stand in disbelief, mighty, imposing over me, not a single branch is moving and not a single leaf has fallen, even though, the winds of change are hissing by my ears. I almost give into feeling powerless. But this is not a time to stop. My heart births yet another idea and fingers grip tighter. I feel my blood starting to move and my veins gorging. And I write more. Small, rapid words and then long memories flow through the axe striking its shell.
Alas, my axe starts penetrating its superficial layer and starts carving through its now exposed thick and dry skin. I plunge my axe, and blood starts dripping from it. It drips at first, cautiously, slowly, and as I swing more it spurts out. Pushed from behind by years of tension, it looks as gallons of blood come rushing out, gargling as if boiling. As I continue to strike, it spits on me, like a disease, desperate to insert itself into a new host. But I keep my mouth closed, and no old blood shall infect me, no more. And my skin is closed and no new wounds shall be tainted by these, warm spurts, which drip away from my face and chest. As my words power my strikes, the movement of my axe becomes more natural, more precise until the last blow cracks the ribcage open. And the air, the gases, trapped inside for so long, escape, and from its bloated shell, a scream comes out. I cover my nose from its foul smell and I listen as the tension dissipates, turning the escaping scream into a whistle and then a sigh.
Finally, all I can hear again is the humming of the wind as it exposes the hollow centre which was trapped for much too long by that thick and dry carcass of a shell. I hear a crack and the whole tree bents and falls over, cracking under its own weight. Collapsing to the ground, its broken branches reveal the hollow and fragile structure.
I look at it, collapsed on the empty field and feel....nothing.
I turn around and slowly walk away.
No more shall I tend to that old tree.
No more.
