Arrested development

I am a leaf. I am a thought, a story. I am a plot which formed in the author's mind some time ago. That day, the sun had risen after a long time from the misty night. The cold dampness of the evening before was gone. Yes, some days of yore were sunny. The author had written posts which everyone applauded, leaves had sprung forth to spread the green, and the tree had basked in the sunlight. But then the evening came. Unfinished thoughts, vague echoes in dark alleys echoed through the woods and the tree was engulfed in a dense fog. It was the night. That morning, the tree just knew that the sun was rising. The first rays of the sun hit the bud where I was to be born. The mist cleared, and the horizon was suddenly showing itself. A thousand new ideas across a sparkling skyline shone bright, as if in the delight my me being born. A drop of the fresh dew formed in heaven and dropped on the branch. I, the story, was born.

I have growed since then. A random sentence here, a little incident there... all of these began accumulating in my veins. New phrases would form, new cells would amalgamate, and I would uncoil from the bud a little more. But they were random. Every day when the sun would rise, there would be hope that I will flourish a lot more and spread my wings. My lamina had to spread, I had to turn ripe, and get launched in the wind, floating around in the blogosphere: I was supposed to be published as a post. Unfortunately, it was not to be.

I have been here, stuck at this branch, for a long time. I haven't been able to fulfil my promise. The tree thinks that I have potential. It believes that I will be one of its finest leaves. So it keeps feeding me its sap. Every day, every idle moment, I have the author's time. And I have been long overdue. I am blocking sunlight from reaching the other buds below my mis-shapen shadow. I'm eating their sap. I'm starving other new leaves. Sometimes I feel guilty for doing this. I have an option... to rot and go into oblivion. There will be no trace, I shall drop off into the ground. There will be a little stench, the wind will carry my swansong around for some time. But then I will be obliterated.

The tree disagrees. It refuses to give up. The others can wait. He thinks that if so much has already gone into it, he must see it till the end. He trusts that the effort will be worth it. He keeps telling me, and I tell you, I will fledge when the time is right. Let the light prevail!