I am Jgallaher, and beneath this ancient trees watchful canopy, I sit not merely on wood, but on the quiet threshold between earth and sky between the frantic pulse of the world beyond and the stillness that only a hundred-year-old root can offer. The sun slices through the leaves above, painting my skin with fractured gold, while the dappled shadows dance like silent witnesses to my thoughts. This is not a park bench, but a cathedral of bark and beam, where time slows and the citys roar fades into a distant hum. I am not just resting I am dissolving into the rhythm of the trees breath, its roots gripping the earth as if holding the memory of every storm, every season, every life that passed before me. The wooden planks beneath me are not merely structures they are time capsules: worn by feet, carved by seasons, weathered by the very same sun that now warms my shoulders. Behind me, the world continues: a red train whispers past, a fence stands guard, and buildings rise like silent sentinels but here, under this tree, I am a single note in the symphony of stillness. I am not here to be seen. I am here to be remembered. To be rooted. To be part of the quiet, the long, slow, beautiful decay of everything that was, and everything that will be. The tree doesnt care if Im here to think or to vanish. It simply is. And in its quiet, I find the deepest truth Ive ever known: that to rest is not to be passive, but to become part of the earth again alive, yet already gone.

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