SPEAKING BENEATH THE TREE
TO WHOM I BELONG

JANE COLON-BONET

 

For what are we but human? Such a waste.

For what are we but human? Never satisfied, always looking, always searching for more. Always “improving.” Never satisfied.

Never satisfied, always changing what was already perfect.

So is it any wonder?

Is it any wonder that we broke what wasn’t broken by trying to fix it? Never satisfied with what was already perfect we broke it by trying to fix it.

So is it any wonder that we’re all going to die? Never satisfied, we broke what made us. Never satisfied we tried to change what gave us life.

So is it any wonder that we’re all going to die?

Is it any wonder that we’re going to die by our own hand because we fixed what was not broken and broke it? For what are we but human, never satisfied?

For what are we but human? Such a waste.

And I can’t find even find the energy to cry. I can’t even find the energy to care.

For what I have I to cry for? What have I to care for? Who have I to care for? Who cares for me?

What am I but an empty shell, waiting to be filled? Waiting to be filled by others.

But what are they but empty shells waiting to be filled by others who are empty shells waiting…

For what are we but human? Such a waste.

And what am I but human? Never satisfied by what I am, always looking, always searching to be more, to improve.

For what am I but human?

And is it any wonder that I am never satisfied with what was already perfect? That I am fixing myself until I break. An empty shell waiting to be filled by people who are empty shells waiting to be filled by people…

For what am I but human? Such a waste.

Writing my stories. Stories that are always looking, always searching to make the world something more. And what am I but human and never satisfied?

Writing my own realities because this one is not enough and I am always improving, always changing what was already perfect.

And I can’t even work up the energy to cry. I can’t even work up the energy to care. For what have I to care for? I am an empty shell waiting to be filled by empty shells waiting to be filled.

We are never satisfied by what is already perfect.

And always looking and searching to fix what is not broken. So is it any wonder we are all going to die by our own hand? Is it any wonder that in killing what made us we die? Never satisfied, always changing, always “improving”, what was already perfect.

For what are we but human?

What are we but human?

Such a waste.

So I sit beneath my tree.

No.

Not my tree.

The tree does not belong to me, I belong to the tree.

The carbon from my lungs belongs to the tree.

So the tree sits above their human, taking their carbon from their lungs.

Hears their human, feels their human, muttering, muttering…

What am I but human? Such a waste.

No.

Not a waste.

There is the carbon from your lungs.

The carbon from your lungs.

The carbon from my lungs.

So I sit beneath the tree to whom I belong. Speaking out the carbon from my lungs.

I sure would like to write my stories beneath the tree, the tree to whom I belong.

Not because this reality is not enough.

But because I sure would like to fill those people who are empty shells with the stories from my heart.

I cannot help but make them, the stories, like the carbon from my lungs. But they do not belong to me, they belong to all those people who are empty shells waiting to be filled.

So I sure would like to write my stories beneath the tree to whom I belong. Not because this reality is not enough, but because it is. What we have not broken by trying to fix is already perfect, and this is my piece. The stories that happen in my heart, that I cannot help but make.

Because they are pieces of this reality, little pieces that have passed through me, and I sure would like to share these little pieces with the people waiting to be filled.

Because they don’t belong to me, they belong to whomever they may fill. Like my carbon belongs to the tree.

So I sure would like to write my stories beneath the tree to whom I belong.

I sure would like to share them with the people they might fill.

These little pieces of my reality that I carry with me.

For what are they but perfect, in their way?

What am I but human?

And wouldn’t it be such a waste to waste me?

JANE COLON-BONET

 

Jane Colon-Bonet is a rising senior at Bard College in New York, doublemajoring in written arts and theater & performance. Originally from Colorado, Jane does a great deal of fight choreography in addition to writing. In the future, Jane hopes to get involved in electronic publishing and explore the ways in which different creative mediums can work together to explore ideas across artistic and scientific fields.