Van Gogh hasn't got anything on my tree...

There’s this tree that sits outside my window, it’s really quite extraordinary, with vibrant lilac flowers blossoming from its ivory and tan bark, its long branches swooping delicately in such a fashion that it appears as though it’s reaching up to the pale blue heavens. At night it’s a bit magical, as its figure reminds me of the uncertainty so indelibly marked in Van Gogh’s Starry Night, its form nothing short of alluring, and a tad spooky, belonging to the night world I have never really known. Oh, but by day it delights me, as I have never beheld such a glorious tree, and though its night form unnerves me, I am intrigued by it nonetheless.

I’d study it as I’d fall asleep, peaking out from the pillows and blinds, the figures indifference to my existence amusing me, the figures sway like a spell-induced lure.

If someone would have told me their were other trees I would have simply gawked straight into their face in a look of frustration and absurdity, as no tree could ever or would ever compare to this one. But I suppose naivety only runs so deep, I suppose the imagination only goes so far, I suppose truth has to blindside us every once in awhile: my tree wasn’t anything special, in fact, it was on the contrary, for it was like a million others that I’d failed to see this Spring.

Upon my discovery of my somewhat cliqued tree, I suddenly saw these trees everywhere, the purple blossoms dancing in the wind, the delicate ivory resting its back upon the faintly clouded sky. When I managed to move, to search a little, to step a bit further, the trees were plentiful, its originality became scarce.

Though there is nothing to fear I suppose, because someday I’ll find a truly unique tree, something unlike all the rest, someday I’ll find the truest beauty. But I’ll never forget that first purple tree, so intriguing, so alluring—simply beautiful.

There is this red tree….