At some point during my teenage years, a tree trunk appeared in my front yard. I do not recall how.
Rather than removing it right away, I asked my parents if I could try my hand at chopping the trunk in half by hand with an ax. I was young, I wanted to enact my will on the world in a visible way. I had been reading a lot of fantasy novels.
For quite some time, whenever I was frustrated with the world or myself (which was often) I would go out and hack at the log.
I never made it very far. I lacked technique, and the trunk may have hardened over time. But I kept at it. I remember the blunt indentations on the wood.
We do not need many rules that we can depend on. But with just a few bit of solid illusion, we can mimic the transcendent. But there is nothing to depend on.
I wonder why my parents let an ugly tree trunk sit in there yard for so long. Love?
I do not want to die. But I will. I want to write a biography, but is that how I really want to spend my precious time? Making narrative out of nonsense and random imperfect memories.
The parts that feel.