Wooden conundrums. Dendritic enigmas. What is the meaning of trees? Are they keeping something from us within the spawning syntactic mess of their leafy linguistics? Is there something to be read in the sky lit script of their bendy trunks and crooked branches? Is it a novel or a poem? Is it a love letter? Could it be a warning or even a scream sustained?
If I eat these mushrooms I might comprehend the secret of trees. If I wolf down these psilocybinetic grammar guides I might be able to read the world. That is what I wondered and that is what I did. A heap of shrooms, from belly to brain and boom …I saw it clearly. The trees were laughing. Their arms raised high. Regaling in their incredulity at the sight of us. Us - always trying to get somewhere. Never staying still. Dragged around by a misnomer of progress. Determined to be lost. Running further and further from home. Always running, like a running joke. The trees spoke to me, I could read them as words, and what I read was this: ‘Ridiculous bunch of wankers, ridiculous bunch of wankers, ridiculous bunch of wankers.’ That is all they said, over and over and over again.
A shrieking, echoing, endless tirade of abuse; I ran around with my fingers in my ears, trying to block out their mockery. It was bad trip. I was insulted, both personally and on behalf of us all. Our genus was not a joke and I swore I would prove it. When I recovered my reason I shared my knowledge with others of my species. We made our plans and we set about our revenge. We had the fuckers felled and pulped. We turned the trees into things we could readily understand, value and appreciate. We gave the trees a new meaning. We turned the trees into money and we made them into coffins. We lay down in our funerary finery and we choked to death, wealthy.