The mainstream molds us like clay, shaping us into a monoculture—an artificial orchard of uniformity. Each of us, like the rows of apple trees, stands neatly in line, subject to the same pesticides that poison our authenticity. Our minds, pruned and cut, are directed to grow in ways that serve a larger machinery. This training—this mutilation—teaches us to sing a song that is not our own. It is a hollow chant, a murmur in the wind, devoid of soul.

We become like these trees, standing tall but hollow inside. Our branches, where individuality once blossomed, wither. Our roots, that once dug deep into the rich soil of culture, decay. The earth’s pulse, which once throbbed beneath our feet, becomes distant, obscured by the endless hum of the system.

We crave connection, not only with each other but with the infinite energy of the soul. But we forget, blind as we are, that we too are creatures of the soil. The earthworm does not ask for its place in the soil; it simply is. We too are woven into this web of life, but our grounding, our natural place, is severed. Until we remember this connection, we will remain as sickly branches, reaching but never touching the sky, planted but never nourished.

Yet the soil, ever patient, waits. Beneath the layers of concrete and conformity, it still hums with the song we have forgotten. The earthworm moves in silence, reminding us that real transformation begins not from above, where the light dazzles and blinds, but from below, where the unseen roots stir in the dark, where the unseen work of decay and regeneration never ceases. The mainstream tells us that light alone brings life, but it is the interplay of light and dark, of sun and soil, that truly sustains growth.

As we lose ourselves in the mainstream’s illusion, we forget that the soul, like the roots of an ancient tree, knows how to find the water beneath the surface. But we must be willing to descend. We must unlearn the song we’ve been taught and listen for the deeper rhythm, the ancient pulse of the earth. Only then can we remember that we, too, are part of this cycle—not just observers, but participants, connected to the seasons and the soil.

The mainstream would have us believe that our growth must be uniform, orderly, and directed. But real growth—true flowering—comes from chaos, from surrendering to the wildness within. It is not in the manicured field that we find our true nature, but in the untamed forest, where each tree grows according to its own design, unpruned and free.

We are not mere products to be shaped and sold. We are living organisms, part of a vast, interconnected web. The soul does not thrive in isolation; it requires the nourishment of community, of diversity, of the wild and the sacred. To reclaim our roots, we must dig deep into the soil of our being, shed the layers of conditioning, and embrace the truth that we are not separate from the earth, but part of its living breath.