Trees talk to us sometimes. Their heads plunged into the ground of our cities, they swing, even in winter, their skinny feet and excited by the wind. They talk to us because we are like them, like those ostriches, feathers in the air, eyes buried in opaque considerations.
A tree is trapped in its land, its concrete, its city. Its loneliness is no less of a decoy. It was proven that trees are aware of their fellow-creatures, that they are spreading, upside down, nets of substances, that they find many stratagems to transmit genes, promises. They survive.
Trees talk to each other, we speak to them. We’re talking to each other. But the trees do not wage war on each other, they do not seem to invent lies, they accept their fate to such an extent that, if they are cut down, no one will appear to be offended, not even a rustle of branches in the other trees.
I’m making this up.
What do I know about that? I said above that trees talk to each other. Then they know everything about them, their holocausts, so many trees that have become movable, paper, skin, fire.
But they survive.
I would like the trees to really talk to me.