The last living tree on earth had grown weary of breathing for the whole planet. Its arms stretched out holding sway against the wind. And for what? This scorched earth below, crawling with parasites with bottled gasses to keep themselves alive? These reckless hubristic masters of the universe. These multiplying deities with their technologies and their omniscient wiki-wisdom. Why should a tree care to exist for their benefit?
The last living tree on earth did not begrudge the company of the birds that made their home in its upper branches using broken twigs from its extremities in their nests. It took no issue with the animals that would piss against its protruding roots, or those that used it as a scratching post.
But the last living tree on earth had grown to hate the humanity that burnt its sisters in their fires. That chopped down its brothers to make way for fields to force feed their fat cows to their puking crying babies. The last living tree on earth would spit in the face of humanity if it had a mouth to do so.
But the last remaining bronchi of the world was not built for bitterness. It had risen from the earth and was attached to the earth. It possessed a true connection to the world. Unlike the evident disconnect of the free-floating digitised demi-gods that would visit the solitary sycamore and scratch love hearts and peace signs into its bark. Maybe if they had roots they would understand. Maybe if their nourishment came from the burnt out sun they would know.
And, as the last dying tree on earth began to decay, visitor numbers for the museum of life dwindled. Over the years the world came to forget about the wooden martyr. The hand-carved histories of nature’s sad demise were cocooned in pixelated memories.
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