Manufactured

In the beginning there was a tree. And the tree had been alive for so long that its roots penetrated the soil to great depths in search of the water there embedded. It's canopy scraped the sky, emblematic of its sheer size that could in fact be supported by the strong base with which it had established. This tree was surrounded by others like it, but none could really compare to the standard at which this tree had set for the rest of the forest. It was fitting that it was at the forest's centre, towering above the other large trees such that it could be noticeable from a great distance.
One day, a man came along having seen the tree for many days now. He thought that the tree was good for his own purposes, to perhaps get him something that would seem to be of equivalence that would be useful for him. There was no use for one tree amongst so many, he had reason. He saw this thing that he offered no hand in raising but since he considered himself master of the earth, he thought it his to do as he pleased. He measured the tree's width and found it more than satisfactory, and vowed that he would return the next day. At dawn he returned. In his hand was a saw with which he set about to taking the life of that which was older and greater than he could ever understand. The tree fell in the woods and the man heard it, so it did fall. So large and mighty did this tree grow that in falling took many large branches off of other trees in its descent but fell alone, singly amongst the other giants. Should it have been shorter then? Is this the price for being better equipped to weather the elements and produce the most sturdy self? A reverse effect, adverse even, of survival of the fittest, because the theory does not take into account the tastes of man.
The tree was too tall even for his long trailer to harness and transport, so he set about destroying the tree in parts. Three parts, almost evenly divided. Crown lopped. Leaves discarded, secondary, smaller branches done away with and flung to the side. Where there had been no green in that particular part of the clearing, there was now a loose sea of it. It would not last long. There would be no more verdancy there soon enough.
Redwood. Cut from the bottom, it would be the equivalent of severing a man from his ankles, leaving his feet rooted, and watching him fall to the ground and die. It would take the redwood several hours to die. The leaves would still be converting carbon dioxide and harnessed energy from the sun to oxygen and energy for the rest of the tree. These discarded leaves would starve to death of water and converted victuals from the roots, shrivel and become brown and fragile, to be broken under the weight of passersby. The tree would not realise until too late that these nutrients would be going nowhere, seeping out to the direction of the roots. The oxygen would be used by the animals in the vicinity, even the man who now looked at his handiwork with great contentment was gulping in breath after breath of the precious element.
The tree began to be shaped according to the demands of society, and society demanded that we lie, amongst other functions. What was once an erect being was now being being carted and shaved laterally to its former grandeur. Flat planks emerged from the mysterious spinning blades that honed what was once alive, what may still have been alive on that mobile death bed, into something usable by society. The extra parts were picked up of course and sent through another machine, one which ground its unsuspecting prey this time. Another shaved. Yet one more pressed. Each creating something different, and different from what once was whole. Separate destinies of the singular, once proudly looming mass of life.
A finishing artist made the wood, so supple and workable, yield into many shapes and patterns. Meticulous. Painted where desired. Sanded to remove its true texture. Smoothened to be accepted. Injected with special treatments so that it would never age. Made to look pretty by someone else's standard. This furniture will last forever in your home and can even be passed down to future generations. We have made it so and our word is our bond and our bond is now the agreement which we share. I sell, you buy and all are satisfied.
I am sitting on that tree. I sit at the table and feel along the slender leg that is now a fraction of circumference to which it formerly belonged. I ate a meal and afterward picked my teeth with a toothpick in private. I looked for clothing in my bureau and was careful not to let the doors skid shut with a slam, so smooth are the wheels upon which it rests. I lie in this bed and do not feel anymore the life that once was upright, pulsating with the vibrancy of an interconnected network of veins transporting water and nutrients to its necessary sources, miraculously against the eternal gravitational pull. It is as if it too lies in repose, an inanimate vestige of its former existence. I've never seen a bed grow branches, nor seen roots peeking out from the base of a bedpost. It is the bed that is unnatural, not the tree, but the tree is gone and the bed remains. I lie awake and these thoughts come to me and I grip the sides to see if I can feel anything at all. I see numerous lines that tell as many stories but I feel nothing.