My hope is a young tree

I sat with someone last night, and I wondered why I had cared so much so long ago. In the night, sitting there talking, I felt as if she was a fine girl, but I could never give her what she needs or wants from life. For love had no chance down this path. 

As time courses over my soul, it roughens it in some places, smooths it in others. It leaves memories only a semblance of what they once were. The present gives a certain crispness in lieu of such fading emotions. For once, I was in love. Now, I am a man who can see the futility in it all. So instead, I will climb. I will run. I will bike. I will study and write; and I will cultivate my mind. For if there is no soul that feels utterly attached to mine, then I shall break free from the shackles of this cumbersome burden of trying to find something that does not exist. 

My hope is a young tree. Given water and sunshine in its youth, it burrowed its roots deep underground. It understands that deep roots will pull up the groundwater during a drought. It understands that deep and wide roots will help keep it stable. Like any tree, it knows the higher it grows, the more storms, the more winds, the more danger it will face. Some will come and want to chop it down for the moment of energy they might gain. Some will come with their poison and try to taint the groundwater. But I have already tested the texture of this tree. I have thrown fires at it that may have killed other trees with less bark. I have given it no water and asked it to grow. I have turned my back on this tree too many times.

Nevertheless, this tree has saved me.

It has kept me from the brink and sheltered me from what is sometimes a desert of despair. 

It has been nurtured by few, and it has pulled from the greatness of  the unknown. It has held onto the aesthetic and basked in the glory of adventure and freedom. 

This young tree will most likely endure much more. Yet, I should strive harder to give it fresher water and a fresher view.