Under the tree of infinite wisdom, there could be no morbid self-consciousness.
The tree stood in all its might with its head held up high, every sinew in the unscathed torso strengthened by the burden of experience - its outstretched arms drilled deep into the soil pulling the ground closer with an innate sense of belonging.
Under the tree, the soil was warm and humble. An ant-trail marched upwards in sync to the bird calls tuned to the accordion played by the easterlies, each paying their tributes to the wise one.
No questions. No rhetoric.
An effortless surrender. A transparent conscience. There is little that could go wrong.
A person cannot falter. A person cannot lie.
In the waking, the doubts and fears will have dissolved into thin air. Very few things would matter then.
The mystique of self-realization. A sense of gratitude. And the sound of silence.
