Ryan Chan

“Desolate Monologue” The tree is dead, yet still standing. When the wind passes by, a plastic bag blooms on its branches. That is its final fruit—weightless, yet bending the entire sky. The earth silently remembers—there were once roots breathing here, now only the sigh of plastic remains, like a pale flag protesting on behalf of the voiceless soil. Time has indeed stopped. Not because of beauty, but because the pain is so profound that even the wind takes a detour. We always assume nature is silent, forgetting that silence is the loudest confession. What we casually discard will eventually become wounds the earth cannot heal. And the tree, with its withered limbs, catches humanity’s frivolity, becoming the heaviest witness.