The Pursuit of Happiness

You started off humble, a seed in the ground. Speckled by a flying beak and eroded into the moss-green soil. You waited in the darkness, starved of nutrients and starved of knowledge. You didn’t even notice your coat splitting till you saw light shimmering through cracks in the crumbly ground as you emerged as an embryo. You enjoyed the company of the Sun and welcomed the Rain. Preferably though, you didn’t want to befriend Winter that came and killed many of your neighbors. You gaze upon the delicate flowers blooming as quickly as retracting, the grass that tickles, and the tenacious weeds. You followed the cycles of Earth, the seasons that fostered. You thrived and thrived, Rain gave you water to quench your thirst and the Sun gave you sweet love in the shade of light. You continuously gained rings of fat over the years, and you grew into a great tree.

Your fellows in the forest were cut down by some creatures, who were stripped of their hair and strangely walking on their hind legs. Chopped and bound, the creatures hideously distorted your friends, perverted into hollow boxes in which they lived in. But there was no hatred. You have already witnessed the way the blood splatters when a bear devours the helpless deer, the way the bird plays with the insect, the way the rabbit sprawls desperately for life while dangled nonchalantly in the wolf’s mouth. Everything was cruel in its purity. It was simply the way things were and couldn't be changed. These naked creatures were bound to be the same.

There was a commotion one day when all was at first peaceful. You heard the birds sing in the morning as the dew-mist evanesced into the blue forenoon wind. All of the sudden though, eruptious noises that defiled the tranquil landscape banged across the forest as smoke rose and covered the horizon like the morning fog once again. In the midst of the weary smoke, you could see hazy images of staggering men fall as numerous shots were heard across the woodlands. Few round balls of steel pierced your body and shadows of corpses piled up around you as days of continued chaos went by. 

Only afterwards did the smoke dissipate that you could truly see with no filter the death plastered on the pale faces of the fallen men. Their eyes were bloodshot wide as if still alive with unsatiated hatred yet a dull, lifeless ring remained around their blank pupils. You shuddered with disgust as the spilt blood climbed up your roots and you drank it unwillingly yet relentlessly. 

Surely after the bodies rot and bury in the eolian ground, there will come soft rains to wash up the stench of death that refused to leave. Still, nature went on, and Spring herself woke up at dawn ignorant of the perished humans. So was the pattern. Yet, why are you still dwelling on what has already passed? Why do you refuse to move on, like the stench of death still stuck to the woodlands, reminding you daily of the horrid taste of blood. 

It is because along with the cold blood you sucked up, you absorbed the souls of their bodies into your being. Their hatred, their regret, their fear, their egotism, their pain. Your skin melted horrendously to reveal your core, with eyes of the dead peeking out to stare endlessly beyond. Your branches morphed into the arms of the dead, rough with cadaverous tree bark and reaching - grasping - out desperately for something. Your branches twisted and contorted as if screeching in pain but unable to call out, like a woeful spider captured in his own messy cobweb of black silkened threads. Your fresh earthly fragrance turned rotten, while the soft soil that harvested your growth turned rock solid, like the flesh of a corpse hardening and rotting after death’s gentle touch. Sharp skeletal bones scattered the ground. 

Ultimately, the lush green forest you once resided in became a cemetery. As your friends had all shriveled up from the ominous atmosphere, what remained were dead lanky, spider-like trees and dry foliage crushed in resemblance to ashes. They were small and humbled in your own presence, alive with disgusting vigor, an uncanny protector of the dead. Or you are a parasite of the dead, taking their spirits and fueling your lustful desires. Which one are you? Which one do you claim to be?  

The few townspeople that survived the violent war seemed to have rebuilt their destroyed houses and adapted well to their new and destitute life. They carved the canals out of your way, avoiding the diseased corpses and blood-soaked ground. But they accepted your existence, and they came to bury corpses in your presence. When they came, you saw their hands trembling with eyes full of fear, avoiding the dead eyes in your body peering out curiously at them. They would cautiously dig a hole into the ground, sometimes clanging their rusted shovel against bones in the dirt, and thus they carefully placed the dead body in the hole and covered it with clumpy dirt. 

Eventually, the pure air you had once effortlessly breathed in and out had now become musty and dank. This stale air settled heavy cold onto the ground. Soon, the townspeople that came to bury their dead felt burdened when they trudged heavily through the dead forest, and their breaths turned slurred and exasperated, as you guessed it must be hard for these living creatures to breathe normally in the opaque haze. Filmy ribbons of dense wind wrapped in and out, between the meager trees scattered around and floating through your arms, spiralling the winds of change based on the weight of your presence. 

As the humans continued to bury their dead within the grasp of your roots, you were intoxicated with each set of new emotions rushing through you, each unique soul that was consumed by your growing conscience. You elated that none of the simple, boring animals could compare with the exhilarating complexity that these humans possessed. 

There was one evening when a small human, still boyish and young, was carried limp in the arms of his crying parents. Their tears slid off their faces and were carried away by the dense wind, shining tragically like lost jewels. It was the first time such a youth was brought to you. At first you were disappointed in his tiny soul and its dull happy simplicity that was of a smaller scale than what adult humans carried within them. 

But the ancient dead came upon you, a huge tidal wave drowning you in their high-strung emotions. It was their longing of a simpler time of naive happiness. Of a blissful ignorance. Of an innocent love. The regret of adulthood and yearning for childhood possessed you. The pupils of the dead on your stump dilated and began to slide in all directions, quivering with utmost thrill. The faces of the dead began to painfully stretch under your skin, gasping with no words. Your arms began to branch out, obsessively shaking and twisting. They flailed and groped at the young boy’s body. 

It was then that you first realized your need for the souls of children. You did not want to invigorate the idea of bringing corpses yourself to your own hearth, but you remind yourself of the awful feeling of regret you experienced. You had to do it. 

Your roots began to grow far and wide under the surface, reaching out to the villages around. Your roots, now contorted into the flaking shape of a human's hands, would shoot out from underneath and forcefully grab any young child, pulling them underground until they could no longer breath. You would then drag the child through the rough ground while they struggled toward the sky. Returning to your cursed home, you consumed the child’s spirit, body and soul, and you became happy. 

Yes, you were satisfied. Until the happiness ran out and you had to go out hunting for another soul.