Chapter 1
The leaves reach toward the cerulean horizon, grasping fruitlessly at what they cannot have. The empyrean blue recedes, officially marking the futility of their pursuit. Yet with obstinacy, they strive forward, unwilling to surrender to Mother Nature. Birds in the distance soar overhead, steadfast and valiant, reaching far past what the fronds could ever grasp, thus proving further the inevitability of the leaves’ collapse. However, they continue, in defiance, their impotent jaunt. But yet again, more birds sail by, and with their assault comes a disruptive gust, forcing the leaves to fall helplessly towards the landscape beneath them. Their former glory now shamed, they settle in the lanky weeds, back at their prior origin. The crickets chirp in harmonies from within the tufted stalks, creating a ballad of sorrow that rivals the tone of their silent grief.
The leaves lie in their destruction, accompanied by the insects within the lush foliage. The cacophony of their racket was mocking and derisive. However, as if God were imposing his mercy upon them, the howling wind picks up, rushing forward in a hasty fashion. Abruptly, the leaves surge up towards the subject of their ambition. They realize, with a newfound faith, their new entanglement. They wait with bated breath, hoping this meager fling would get them to where they fantasized. Yet despite the fronds’ undying desire for continuance, their uplifting gale is quickly stripped from them, leaving them almost as rapidly as the two had aligned. Thus, the foliage descends upon the disheartening earth, landing once more in quiet anguish, except this time they’re left unaccompanied in the nightfall.
The Foliage, left unattended in the twilight, ogle at what could never be theirs. Searching the beauty of the boundless space before them, restrained, they wish for the aforementioned beauty that the heavens hold in their grasp. The constellations luster under the moon’s silken gaze, jubilant to be within the heavens, and asteroids glide past on their orbit, taunting in their ostentatious show. Resentment courses through the fronds with a far-reaching dominion, taking over heedlessly. They recognize their innate inability to seize their desire, yet still feel vexed by their environment, condemning all that surrounds them. Their emotion heightens, and like a wave breaking on a jagged stone, they falter into a state of mourning. Their moaning could be distinguished throughout the rugged wilderness, understood as a cry towards their cruel, imminent, and forthcoming decay. Yet, despite their evident suffering, nothing or no one comes to deliver them from their crisis. They are left alone to wallow in their torment, never quite breaking free from the chains of melancholy.
Time passes, and days turn to weeks, and weeks turn to months, yet the leaves’ suffering never once diminishes. But one day, as the sun lays its soft gaze upon the earth, a blinding ray sweeps across the land, and a seraph descends upon the sunken surface. The leaves gaze up at the glaringly bright guardian, dazed at its enchanting countenance and serene demeanor. The Cherub spoke with a virtuous inflection and an ethereal voice,
“That which is concerned as ephemeral,
Brief, yet unsullied with grief, is the most celebrated.
Within the confines of a meager nemoral,
Woe, regarding where it cannot go, but yet is still fated.
Thus holds the most allure,
Gleaming, its beauty teeming, yet feeling dull in resemblance.
In a state of constant inure,
Despite what might reveal a dazzling semblance.
Thus must be liberated,
Recognize now and stop thy cries for eternity.
Transition today, for your soul requires being unweighted,
Reveal, with unrestrained zeal, your newfound modernity.”
Thus, once the messenger ceased its overture, it returned to its righteous home in the promised land. Once again, beams shoot across the sky, coating the horizon in multitudes of crimson and copper. Disconcerted, the leaves sit in astonishment, left once more unaccompanied by anything other than themselves. The proclamation of the archangel echoes within their consciousness, as if it were trying to reiterate itself to the foliage, until they fathom the essence of the statement. The birds start warbling their chorale, interjecting the leaves’ thoughts, and again the day begins. The leaves float aimlessly through the hillside, thrown off their course by the otherworldly creature. They bump into trees and greenery, and the wind swirls them wherever it pleases. They’re stepped on by rodents, and they’re left to float down a solemn creek, filled with only tiny pebbles and a small current of water.
As the fronds float hap-hazardly down the brook, they are once more forced to take in the charm of the cerulean blue. It looks at them with a teasing glint in its eye and doesn’t let them avert their gaze. They glare at it with an envious look, but as they do so, they are reminded anew of the seraph’s outlandish remark. Perturbed, they push back the bizarre proclamation and again return to their state of self-loathing, not once hesitating to review the odd words. The leaves continue to drift along, wallowing in their bitterness, ceasing to recognize their dwindling consciousness. Before they knew it, their once vigorous and unshakable desires, their fierce and unyielding lifeforce, came to an end. The foliage is discarded on the bank of the small body of water, left to rot alone with the worms and beetles. Yet, before they are able to do so, a young girl strolls with her mother alone on the riverbed. Her plump, scarlet cheeks and amber eyes peer down at the leaves, and without averting her attention once, she gathers them up and inspects them. She pulls them close to her face, adjacent to her eyes, and states, “Look, mommy! These look just like my eyes! Do you think I can keep them?” A little dismissively, yet still tender, her mother responds, “No, honey, even if they’re beautiful, leaves aren’t meant to last forever.”
