The clouds are dark, and the rain is falling from the sky. I stand on the ground, as I've always done. I'm on my own. A bit further away there are other trees. Sometimes I wonder if they feel alone, too. They stand still just as I do. I've been here for a long time, it has been many years. I've seen plenty of things over the years.
It's interesting to see how people change. I enjoy the ones who comes to this place year after year, who I recognize. There are those who comes as children, and when they grow old, they come here, too. If only they would see me the way I see them. Have I changed? I don't know. I'm like a recorder, I record what's going on, I see what's happening. I have it all saved inside of me. The thing is, no one ever presses the play-button.
Sometimes, people comes by. Humans. Old ones, young ones, and everything between. There are creatures of all ages. They pass me, sometimes they notice me, but for the most part, they don't. I'm used to no one noticing me. Why would they? I'm a tree. How many people have you seen talking to, or in any way interacting, with a tree? I bet it's a rare sight.
A girl is crying. She sits on a bench, lonely. Sometimes I picture myself as a human, thinking about what I would do. I would walk up to her, hug her. I wonder what it's like to get a hug. I've seen a lot of hugs over the years. I also wonder what it's like to cry. It's like water running down their faces. Is it the same as when it's raining? I wonder what feeling is inside, if there is any, when they cry.
Watching all these things going on around me, but never being able to be a part of it, bugs me sometimes. I'd do anything to experience what I'm watching each day. But then again, I'm a tree. I must have a meaning being here, too. I've thought of myself as a recorder many times before, and I still do. I wonder if anyone ever will press the play-button. Will they ever see what I see? Will they feel the way I feel, will my feelings and thoughts be theirs for a while?
A boy walks by. He's in a hurry, it seems. I wonder what makes people so stressed, they always seem to be on the run. Where are they going? What are they running to? I'd like to see if there's more than this, what happens when they disappear out of my sight, when I can't be a visitor, watching a piece of their life any more. Maybe there's nothing more to life than this. There are so many moments that I get to see, watching from the outside. This can't be it.
There are things I'll never know. There are things you'll never know, either. You're not a tree. I am.