Centuries of thick brown bark stood, staring. Staring at the same place for its whole life without a say in anything, watching years of happiness and sadness pass everyday. Rough textures covered its body and arms creating an uniqueness to its personality. Varieties of widths stick out of its body, parenting hundreds, thousands, of different shape and sized leaves. Vicious rounds of wind attack, causing bright green, deep red and burnt orange shapes to leave, like a child leaving its mother for the first time.
Dead, crunchy, unwanted leaves lay on the solid floor creating piles for happy children to jump in while the leaves parents cry as they have lost their child. Their child is what kept them warm, to keep them safe. By winter they have all left, making the tree to look bare, to look dead. Glistening snow gently hugged the bare branches, comforting them until new children could be born in the spring. But eventually the snow leaves, everything always leaves.
Bursts of coloured shapes sprout in the spring, the cycle continues. Snow doesn't come every year. The once happy children grow up to become unhappy teenagers. The new children are never happy as the ones from the previous years. Never. Branches are left without the hugs they need, making the tree look dead.
Without happiness we ourselves look dead, while others are actually dead inside.
