AND THE TREE AWAKENED
In its dream, it had seen hundreds of seasons pass, perhaps thousands: winter, spring, summer, autumn, and again the harsh winter, always in inexorable succession, although also harmonious, but ultimately boring due to its programmed continuity.
In its dream, the tree dreamed or perhaps imagined being a unique and different being from so many other trees. It even believed it could be a king like a stern and stately oak, strong and adored by ancient Celtic cultures. Its branches were large and strong, but with its ally, the wind, they became flexible, creating unrepeatable and harmonious figures in an infinite dance of shapes, light, and sound.
In its dream, it saw a solitary leaf, but not abandoned, resisting death and clinging to life. It saw the snow silently settle on countless branches. It saw those already dry branches attempting to reach the infinite sky. It saw that sky, with its clouds, wanting to touch those branches. It saw the magical fountain of Barenton, the initiatic cradle of the Breton Druids, surrounded and protected by its fellow vegetal beings.
It saw the mists that magically invaded its vegetal kingdom. It saw what it believed were its subjects, slender and aligned like an army, covering its field of vision. It saw roots giving life to its counterparts. It saw fallen leaves, inert, decomposing with harmonious dignity. It saw love in a drop of water poetically sliding between ghostly branches.
In its dream, it created a prison with its own memories, which, in the form of mists, covered its world with dense and repetitive thoughts.
Everything in its dream seemed real and paradoxically false at the same time. They were like images projected from an imaginary mirror of incredible definition but with a strange chromatism as if filtered by warm and dense light.
In the end, the tree accepted its awakening, but with the uncertainty that perhaps it was not really that, but only the transition from one dream to another, chained to an existence of programmed and recurring reveries like the wheel of the Buddhist Samsara, of endless reincarnations in the form of apparent lives and deaths, all unreal like Maya, which Hindus define as illusion, or perhaps real like in a cyclically infinite dream.
AND THE TREE AWAKENED AGAIN.