Painting the Roses Dead

Chapter 1: The Encounter

I always wondered what it would be like to be a tree. An object living yet immobile being forced to witness the world at its most raw. Exposed to nature and any other living thing choosing to pass by. Looking on at surroundings but not being a part of them. Sure, a tree is essential and apart of an ecosystem, but how important is a tree truly to the rest of the world on a daily basis. How much does a tree actually, like do? (Now I mean on a metaphorical instance I know that trees convert carbon dioxide into oxygen through respiration and whatever) And to answer the question of what trees have in relation of importance to the world accurately, would be if you yourself were a tree. And sometimes, I feel like a tree. I loom in the corner taking part in the ecosystem of society by watching the nature of adolescent human beings but not actually taking part in it, no importance whatsoever in contributing any other way besides to the ecosystem itself. And what is it like to be a tree, you ask? Or I assume you ask because I do not know for sure that you are actually partaking in consuming these bits of fragmented thoughts and sentences that compose my mind. Who even knows if you the consumer are actually real and existing and who knows if me, the provider of this knowledge is actually existing. But that theory of realism will have have to wait for another time, as we my dear consumer were talking about trees. Being a tree you may perceive is about as boring as being a rock. But actually, I am in fact quite content with being a tree. As a tree I can learn of my surrounding ecosystem by merely existing, rather than actually participating. Which is perfectly fine with me. Because I would rather not identify any sort of literal connection with being adolescent, which comes with being 17, but I do not wish it upon myself. Personally, being in relation to teenage boys who think large breasts and short skirts equal perfect girls and girls who think push up bras and short skirts equal getting boys to look at them is embarrassing to my existence as a person. I mean think about society nowadays, it has become so diverged from it's intended path that to have a bad self image is now more socially expectable than to be content with the shape of your own body. Which is why I intend on becoming a tree. No worries about what clothes, hell I don't even have to worry about what I eat, I just absorb everything through the ground. And because trees do not have any capacity to store knowledge or intellect college will no longer be an underlying fear and algebra will have no absolute use. Who says there is no profession that does not require math? Trees have no use for it which is a good thing because let's just say according to my teacher failing calculus four semesters in a row isn't a good thing. But seriously who needs it we can ju---

"Alice is there something intriguing you would intend to share with the class about that wall?"

My head snapped back towards the front of my calculous classroom. Old fashioned chalk boards lined both sides of the flaking concrete gray walls. "No need for new technology" my 84 year old professor, Dr.Griffin claimed. I have determined that he should not be teaching calculous but in fact he should be wasting away quietly in a boring retirement home teaching math to the various cracks on eggshell colored walls. He coughed and I could feel all 27 and a half eyes shift their gaze over to me. I say 27 and a half because Jane lost one of her eyes when her brother impaled it with a stick when she was four. Now a cloudy glass eye sat in its place, which must make it interesting with staring contests. I shifted my weight uneasily in my blue plastic opaque chair.

"Well you see, Mr.Griffin, sir, I was philosophizing about trees. Though you may not quite understand what I mean by that, since simple education techniques are obviously well after your time."

Hesitant stifled giggles came from various parts of the room. I didn't necessarily intend on being a smart ass at that moment. But you see, sometimes I have this problem where my mouth has no imminent connection to my brain. I ran my hand through my short choppy red bangs, and waited for my impending doom.

"Very interesting, well Alice please request that you and your philosophies make their way down to the office on my convenience, otherwise know as now."