A young squirrel was born under a bitter winter sky, in the hollow of an ancient pine.

His brothers and sisters laughed and scrambled in the trees, and the world — though often cold — was lively enough. His parents, proud and busy, seldom paused to listen when he sang. They loved him in the only way they knew: with rules, with caution, with demands. But his heart was not made for caution.

So one silent morning, with frost still clinging to the needles, he left the hollow behind. Alone, he built his first nest high in a crooked oak, overlooking a field that smelled of distant rain.

After two months, the squirrel carved into the bark of his own tree:

For the pain I felt was so much better,

Words of unforgettable touch,

Than peace that left me cold and hollow,

A silence no comfort could clutch.

He sang when no one could hear. Songs for the empty meadow, for the tired moon, for the chill that never quite left his fur.

And though seasons passed and he made many friends, his songs still drifted unnoticed into the wind. One autumn, the squirrel lost his dearest friend, a kindred spirit who had always listened to his songs. The loss hollowed him in ways he couldn’t put into words.

He found a hollow between the roots of an old cedar tree. With trembling paws, he placed a few golden leaves and acorns around the small form. The winds blew gently through the forest, carrying no songs that day. He sat there for a long while, head bowed, listening to the silence. Sometimes, as a grown squirrel, he would sit high among the branches and listen, headphones of leaves pressed to his ears — pretending the winds were a roaring crowd, pretending his friend was still there to hear him.

A thousand songs of mellow voices,

The touch of flowers’ sweet perfume,

Drift through halls of silent choices,

Unfold where memory makes its tomb.

He loved his friends, he loved their smiles and their laughter. He cheered for them when they leapt the highest branches or found the juiciest acorns.

But even surrounded by laughter, a part of him remained curled deep inside — unseen and unspoken.

I love my friends and all their faces;

I cheer them on, they comfort me.

Yet in their joy, my heart retraces

A solitude they cannot see.

He loved the mountains crowned in mist, he loved the wide lake that stretched beyond the fields, its surface whispering secrets to the sky. He loved the songbirds whose melodies stitched dawn to dusk.

Yet none could ever quite make a home inside his chest.

I love the mountains and the ocean,

The songbirds of sweet melody,

But even in their pure devotion

They cannot make a home of me.

One evening, perched on a tender branch, he met another young squirrel. They talked until the stars blurred into morning. For once, the loneliness dulled.

He thought he had found something more — but as squirrels do, she leapt to another tree, chasing her own destiny.

Nice sunset and my nighttime flower—

I can’t live without destiny.

Yet fate, though wrapped in gentle power,

Still makes a stranger out of me.

She was more beautiful than any wildflower. More radiant than any silvered dawn. And she left with a smile he could not keep.

A girl that transcends all beauty,

The hope I thought she brought to me—

But her heart was never mine to free;

She left to love what silenced me.

As the years dragged on, the little squirrel grew skilled at wearing a bright mask. He laughed at jokes, he raced the wind — but every day the ache grew heavier.

All lonely and a sounding silence,

I act like I’m in good company,

But every laugh feels like defiance

Against the war inside of me.

He never asked for much — just a day where the sunlight stayed a little longer. But deep down, he knew: it wasn’t happiness he craved. It was beauty and heartbreak, intertwined.

High among the branches where he kept his diary carved into the bark, he wrote:

A happy day is all I asked for,

But bliss is not what works for me.

I crave the ache, the pulling metaphor

Of love that dies poetically.

He still thought sometimes of the meadow where he once fell in love. Of the ghost that still danced in the corners of his memory.

The love I long lost in the meadow,

The sweetest face she was to me,

Now just a ghost beneath the shadow

Of all I thought we’d someday be.

Storms raged above the forest. Thunder cracked the ancient trees. And yet part of him, even amidst the chaos, felt alive — more alive than on the quiet days.

I hate a hundred days of thunder,

But lightning gets my heart racing—

Like pain that splits my soul asunder,

Yet leaves a scar that feels embracing.

Seasons passed. Fur once sleek grew patchy with age. Bones once quick grew slow and heavy.

But still he wrote, as if trying to carve one last monument against forgetting:

Blackened diamonds are retracing,

Love, were you meant for me?

Cold winds through the halls are pacing

Where your voice once carried me.

He would sit beneath the great pines, where cones fell like raindrops from the sky, and he would wonder if anyone remembered.

Truth’s too tough, my heart is feeble;

Pine trees drop too many cones.

I pray for strength beneath the steeple—

But I leave more hollow than I’m shown.

There were days the roar of life was too much. And days the silence was worse.

Crushing rocks make such loud noises;

Silence was such shallow peace.

The louder ache became my choices,

The softer dreams began to cease.

And through it all — the seasons, the storms, the songs lost to the winds — he carried a longing he could never quite abandon:

I need the dew drops from all roses;

But authentic hope cannot exist.

The sweetest bloom still decomposes,

A grave for every promised kiss.

Some say the squirrel still sings, in branches too high for the eye to see. Some say he became part of the winds themselves — a lonely voice drifting from tree to tree, carrying songs no one remembers but everyone feels.

If you ever hear a soft melody while walking through an old forest, perhaps pause, and listen.

It might be him.

Still hoping, still singing. Still carrying the hollow weight of roses.

Or did I just describe you?

Share

This week my podcast is an update on the FLDS in 2025:

You would also enjoy this article: The Dark Truth I Discovered When I Had Nothing To Die For

Follow me on X, Facebook, and Instagram for weekly updates!