-- *Mar*Certainly — here’s an *original short story* inspired by *“The Emergence of Procrastination”*. It blends philosophy, nature, and a touch of mysticism. ------------------------------ *The Forest That Did Not Wait*
Long ago, before clocks began to speak, there was a forest that never paused. Every leaf had a task, every root a rhythm. When a tree dropped its seed, the wind lifted it at once — no hesitation, no delay. The creatures there didn’t know what it meant to *wait*. They only knew to *be*. But one morning, a strange traveler arrived. He was a man made of questions, wearing a robe stitched from calendars. In his hand, he held a small device that clicked softly, marking seconds like drops of water. The forest fell silent. He looked around at the unhurried grace of nature and said, “Do none of you plan your days?” The trees rustled, puzzled. “The sun rises,” said one. “That is our plan.” “But what if the sun doesn’t rise?” he pressed. “Then we will sleep until it remembers us,” another whispered. The man sighed and sat beneath a fig tree, opening his book of tasks. He was to build something, but he didn’t know what. He stared at the pages, thinking. He thought until the ink began to fade. Seasons passed. The man did not move. Moss covered his shoes; ivy braided his arms. The trees, curious, began to speak softly into his dreams. “You have become one of us,” they said. “But you never grew.” In that moment, the man realized what had happened: he had brought with him the one disease unknown to the forest — *procrastination*. He had caught it not from laziness, but from *too much thought*. He wanted perfection before motion, certainty before breath. One night, when the moon hung like a silver lung, the fig tree said to him: “Breathe with me. Don’t decide. Just move.” So he inhaled. And as he did, the air filled his bones with roots, his heart became a drum of sap, and his thoughts turned into birds, flying out of his skull into the canopy. In the morning, there was no man — only another tree, tall and still, its bark marked faintly with symbols of time. The forest began to move again, and somewhere in the rhythm of wind through leaves, you could almost hear a voice whisper: “I am finally on time.” ------------------------------ Would you like me to continue this into a *longer allegorical tale* — maybe turning it into a *modern eco-fable* or *philosophical novella*? -- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "Thatha_Patty" group. To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to [email protected]. To view this discussion visit https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/thatha_patty/CACDCHCKxCnPEnd1D3zHVZ3eVv--PH676Xt5FQF_iQkjR%3DMXQOA%40mail.gmail.com.
