The Prince of Milk

Death's Consolation

Dear Diary,

The doctor said it would be best to get you. Im honestly not sure what can help me anymore. Days float on by. I dont know what to do anymore. It feels strange to write in front of them, so I decided to come to Rogers tree

Id like to walk around on the moon someday; traipsing on that place, like I belonged there. The only lonely place in the world is the moon though, and I dont know if I want to be alone. Its scary, my fears arent known, I dont know what makes me scared anymore but it does make me scared. It doesnt seem possible anymore. To walk, to dream. Oh, the tree just moved. I wonder what it must be thinking. I learnt that trees are living things that feel just like us.Does this one have a diary entry like mine? I dont know if im doing it right.

They told me, Im psychotic. What does that mean? I dont feel any different to be honest. I feel the same, like I always have. Things changed so fast. I dont know what they want me to do.

Day after day, they stare at me, expecting something and I dont know what that thing is. Oh the tree moved again. The tree, feels like what all wish to be. I want to be a tree, no I want to be this tree. Old Roger died here, from his childhood till that day, he was drawn to the giant that would never fall. They told me he wished for the things he couldnt have, always day-dreaming. But I met Old Roger, he loved this tree, he always seemed to wish for something new in each sentence, some new yearning at each word, flipping and turning on his bed with each new thought. But when we came here, he was mute, at peace and said to me, Maybe life truly is good enough from this short view I have down here. The English countryside man of the 17th century is quite a strange creature.

I wonder what he meant, I wonder if he knew what he meant? This tree has seen so much and as much of the world as I would like to see. It has seen the thunderstorms with all the indifference of the world, seen the hidden secrets and witnessed Rogers last moments. Yet, it still stands tall, and strong. I want to be strong. I want to be tall.

Dear diary,

The bark simply wont leave, it cant be possible. No matter what I do, it wont come off. How? Why is it the only exception, why does it get that privilege? Who decided that.

Im human, im breakable, rife with vulnerabilities, yet a mere tree surpasses me.

I do not want to hate, what I love, yet I hate it all the more for my love of it. In the end my delight is causer of this strife.

I seem to have gotten all the more worse. My familys eyes are no longer theirs, I do not have a family anymore. Each word casts them into the worst of despairs, my silence brings them worse pangs.

If I am psychotic, then the world is twice as mad.

Why are we called mad when we are happy. Why are my eyes the curtain call for their tears? Why should we fear the mad, when we should learn from them, Why do they not see my happiness and take all from me

Diary, do not take me for an optimist, the sun shining is not enough to bring me to the brink of appreciation, but why take it all so seriously. Sad or happy, it makes no difference unless you are this tree. Maybe I was wrong maybe it doesnt understand.

Dear Diary,

Men are trees and Ill prove it diary, you see, within their wishes and desires , and hopes and yearnings is found a soul, a soul that wishes to be consummated, fulfilled. And even when all is lost and all desires are broken, all hopes dashed even then they will remain trees, steadfast and strong branching out into the wind unapologetically taking up space, breeding and giving life to all; even when dead, a man is still to be reborn for his memories are changed under the light of his friends perception, upon the realizations of his deeds and misdeeds just as a tree is reborn upon the scent of water. You look at me as though I am mad diary, no I am not, they may call me mad but I am not, this tree over here is no different from all men, maybe even wiser and it has intimated in me, the secrets of reality.

Dear diary,

A last entry, again I am with the tree. The harbinger of knowledge. Today I sit with a rope, a knotted one. Today I will become one with the tree of life.

Diary your pages stare back at me with such reproachful eyes, there is no need for reproach, I am determined and sure. Today is the day and nothing will stop me. I leave you here for one reason to give a motive, I wish to be remembered: the earth and you will tell my story. I give you this quest, diary, transfix yourself within the minds of all men who deign interest. Do me this favor diary and maybe my death will have a consolation for death must have its own consolation lest what is the point of life?

My deaths consolation is that I am remembered, even if all I know shall die and all my friends forget my name, face, my voice, my breath, this tree whom I have audaciously come to for the refuge once more will remember me. This brown and green behemoth shall know me always and all throughout the ages

So yes, goodbye dear diary if you forget me always remember, this is my deaths consolation.