The Orange Tree by Sahasra

Sometimes I sit at my desk, staring into space. I’ll have all of my papers scattered around me: on my desk, in my bag, lying on the floor—perhaps even a stray sheet that’s fallen from a binder.

Regardless, my hands are in my lap, my chair; anywhere but the work. I’ll sit and daydream with an empty look in my eyes, pondering if any of this is even worth it.

After all, what’s the point?

And so, I forget about the end-goal in pursuit of momentary pleasure: “peace.” But as its title implies, the pleasure is only a fleeting illusion serving to mask the true goal.

Within this illusory state, my thoughts wander and randomize. From book to folders to—ooh! It’s the color orange! In this train of thought, I tend to analyze anything and everything. Because orange is to fruit and fruit is to tree and trees provoke ideas of if I had more motivation than me.

I plop down below the tree, exhausted and engulfed in shadow, feeling the cool as I reach above to harvest my fruit. It keeps me alive, but that’s all; I only get by.

In my dimmed state, I glance over to my neighbor. He’s driven to get the glistening orange that gleams atop the loftiest limb. He reaches but fails, his endeavors to no avail. He tries again and again , as he’s got all the world’s vigor on his side, or at least that’s what he lets on in those fiery eyes.

Bystanders snicker. His flame doesn’t flicker. He’s got an initiative to work for, only halting when he’s reached his objective.

Finally, he snags the honeyed fruit from the top of the tree, the one whose flesh has been ripened by the Sun’s kiss. I gaze at him sitting down with a sigh, devouring his sugary prize. I glance at my own fruit which is sour like a lemon.

We both have fruits. Oranges, too.

So, what’s the difference? The one who favors short-term contentment gets stuck with the tart fortune while the one who is motivated will succeed in their strides to the sweetest fate.