The moment you hit the forest floor, there is a contract, a philosophical compact, a metaphysical agreement struck between your bark and the eyes that don’t notice you: you will not be a thing, you will be background. And I have been told—more than once, from various academic circles, from forestry commissions, from insurance adjusters wearing sensible shoes—that there is a fundamental difference between being something and being scenery.
There’s a distinction, I suppose, between being noticed and being observed. Between being noticed as a fallen entity with a specific history of growth rings and seasonal cycles, versus being observed as mere visual noise, as atmospheric obstruction, as something your gaze slips past to focus on something more interesting.
In the wake of the 2026 Interior Department’s “Monument Condition Index” controversy, a new bureaucratic requirement has taken root in the quiet corners of the American landscape: objects that do not speak must file their own witness statements.
When a tree falls without human intervention, it no longer qualifies as “natural decay”—it must now submit an “Unobserved Rot Authorization Form” to the Compost Bureau’s Passive Asset Division. The form requires three signatures: one from the tree itself (obtained by having its saplings hold an emergency hearing), two from neighboring saplings (who must file under penalty of “excessive emotional investment”).
There exists a fundamental paradox in the way I perceive my own mortality: I am certain I am decomposing, yet absolutely certain that no one is observing this process. And that certainty—that nobody is watching—is, paradoxically, the only thing I’m sure of.
“I have been lying here since 2026-04-28,” I tell the earthworms crawling across my bark, “and the truth is, nobody has witnessed this. The wind, the rain, the sun—they are all merely elements without perception. If I have not been observed by another consciousness, then does the rotting matter?”
The smell hits first. Before the eyes confirm what the nose has already reported, before the bureaucracy can intervene, before the tree can even formulate the philosophical objection to its own decomposition—the stench has arrived. It is the scent of nitrogen, cellulose, and the quiet surrender of lignin. The first inspector who sampled the air reports “Unable to Identify Source Without Visually Confirming Mass Loss.” The second, who inhaled more, writes that the odor suggests “the tree is currently experiencing what philosophers call ‘metabolic confession’.”
The Federal Metaphysical Assets Assessment (FMATA) Division has issued its first annual declaration forms, requiring all citizens to submit quarterly reports on their current ontological states. The form requires tick-box selection of one of the following: ‘Being,’ ‘Becoming,’ ‘Non-Being,’ ‘Potentially-Being-But-Not-Yet,’ ‘Becoming-Non-Being,’ or ‘Experiencing-Existential-Transition.’
According to FMATA Director Dr. Silas Vane, the initiative stems from a 2023 audit which revealed that 42% of Americans were “operating in metaphysical limbo” without proper documentation. “We found that individuals claiming to ‘simply be’ were evading a 28% metaphysical capital gains tax,” Vane explained during a press conference where he attempted to ‘be’ while simultaneously being filmed. “This creates a compliance paradox we’ve had to address through new legislation.”