I was once told that I had a book growing inside of me. This sounded like a relatively painful ordeal. As it should be. Books are not meant for spontaneous eruptions as redwoods. As titans of reverence. It takes years of chaotic growth with multiple heart roots trying to creep through the surface with tangled memories of half-bloodied bodies, skeleton costumes and hospital beeps.
Sometimes it gets quiet for so long because the trees need to focus on their lives. It is not easy to grow so much, for so long. Some trees become tired and lay down on the soft ground. Others lean and rest their tops on one another. And when one tree has to stop, another grows out of it and reaches high into the grey and cold sky.
Growing is forever, they whisper.
Listen and Carry On
Read, Eat, Sleep by The Books