The Fork Tree

In the present hour, which remains the adamant portion of my unrequited arrest, I have given to the benefits of intelligent industry, an exclusive discrimination of volition and cause. It is my prerequisite to assign the audible intrusions of my council to this unsullied page, and give semblance to the 'predicament' which finds me here, with many unanswered questions. My character is not usually of the indecisive but you will understand, when I pen my tale, and extract from its very marrow, the obscure fragility of its manifestation. I remember, on that particular night, I had been plagued, by the insurmountable lucidity of nightmares, those which in proportions of genius, derive more from the sensation of malevolence, than from the object of its service. I have subjected the credit of this peculiar, installation of the subliminal offspring, in abasing the authority of the object, for the tenor of dreams, is accomplished by mere condition of our perception. You will not then say that, I had anything to fear from the imagery of a tree, outside my yard. It was a strange thing, this author of my dreams, for it was shaped as of a fork. It was a perfect, graduate in the embodiment of desolate surrealism, and it stood, at high altitude, in the environ of my yard. I shuddered at the image, as it withered from the final grasp of my observance, and turning to my window, I learnt that there was no such structure or even a promise of it upon my soils. It was perhaps the age old curse of anxiety, and deficient recourse that made me dream of the three toothed, wooden fork of a tree; it must have been the object of such intrusive endowment. I forgave myself of even attempting to validate the ludicrous thought, and yet the days went by, and I became more, untethered in the tides of disquiet. It became more lucid, and still, the structure in perfect analogy, made me, ridiculously fermented, and inspired with unwholesome terror.

Nothing has thus far changed, as per the adamant recursion of reality, and yet my eyes have found unrequited interest in the window, for there breathes a new offspring in my soils. It is far too little, and perhaps I should not worry myself, and award it any commune with my fancy. A flower perhaps or a plant? Ah but the days wane into twilight, and twilight into night, and I cannot find the benefits of novel interest, beyond the image of the precociously flourishing offspring. It grows more and more, and I find more to compare to that evanescent dream. Dear lord! It is an unusual fate that has made me witness to the fallibility of the sensible and plausible, for there in the cold of the noon, is that bohemoth three forked tree!