The weak branch / Quiver

He'd never really taken the opportunity to appreciate how amazing the tree was. He slowly ran his fingers along the bark and made note of the seemingly endless expanse of cracks and crevices. He gently caressed a leaf, closely examining its semitransparent skin and followed it back through its veins to its stem, back through the hierarchy of branches and eventually back to the trunk. The tree was a complicated compilation of weather, time, and energy. It had endured and thrived and grew. It was what he was. As if the idea had been bottled up somewhere deep within and suddenly uncorked, the notion of climbing the tree now seemed so obvious he had already hoisted himself up before the thought had fully processed. Soon he was standing on a low sturdy limb with his eyes fixed on the younger, weaker, more beautiful branches that swayed above. Up there it was cleaner and brighter and newer. It was where he needed to be.

Moments later he noticed the tiny grooves in the pavement and the countless number of patterns they formed. They were extravagant and beautiful like the branches of the tree. He watched the blood trickle along these grooves, seemingly creating paths at random on its journey toward the street. Soon these tiny paths of blood intersected with others until it formed into a pool that gradually works its way from him, overtaking ants, dead blades of grass, and a cigarette butt. As darkness closed in on all sides he could only assume the blood would make it all the way into the street, crossing the shadow of the tree.

zeroth life lesson: just because something's breathtaking doesn't mean it warrants ascending.