Desperation

My troubles began when I found out that I am the one who makes decisions, and at the same time the one who will bare the consequences. Of course I have had some recommendations on every topic of discourse, but they all seemed kinda out of date, not current enough. Or they were just plain wrong. Like the one with the cherries and water – don't mix I was told. But climbing from branch to branch looking for the best site made me thirsty and the decision between thirst and something unknown was an easy one. Nothing happened and in autumn I helped the cherry tree shed its leaves.
That tree was the first love of my life, its branches were holding me above the ground I was supposed to stand on firmly, and its cherries tasted as sweet as every decision I made on my own, not depending on well meant words of my family, not trusting my not so trusty friends, not believing media, teachers, gods.
I really wasn't interested in living life like someone else, not really appealed by “normal” living, except for lying on thick branches of my cherry tree. It wasn't really mine as I found out one early spring when it was cut down to make space for young, promising trees. Their promise wasn't kept, my cherry tree was gone, and there was no hope for lying on a perfect cherry tree for at least 40 years, and by that time I wouldn't be able to climb one.
Things went on faster from that day. I spent most of my time sitting on the front stairs of our house with our dog – a huge white shepherd. He was a very hard minded being, he didn't listen to anyone except his hunger and cat killer instinct. But he was willing to spend time with me, so we sat together, and I told him everything about my plans. He was a good listener, a few times he looked like he was going to object on something, but he just started breathing with his mouth open. It was always very disappointing and I cried into this thick curly fur. One day he was too old and I dug a hole for him in the back yard, and he lay by the hole and watched my work.
I wondered if it will be the same with me. One day I'll be too old and someone will arrange my death. But it all seemed too far away and the subject hadn't kept my attention.
Anyway, school started.
You might have noticed it in some kids – at the time you send them to school, they're thinking about much more important topics then learning the alphabet or anything comparably simple.
School certainly held me from becoming a naturalist philosopher.
Instead it turned me into a person who knows something from everything and nothing altogether.
Opinions weren't welcomed back then, and now there is no one to listen. They all have problems of their own. So much to do.
Then high school started. Now that was a useful waste of time. First I learned how to smoke, then how to avoid responsibility, slack off, then drink, smoke pot, curse and drive a tractor. I have become a semi pro at all of them except the tractor.
The university welcomed me warmly, I was a promising failure. I met a hundred great people that I haven't met since I left. Not that much between us anyway – just piles of hemp and gallons of booze. We drank every week the first year, every day the first half of the second, every third day for the rest of the time. Then I got kicked out to great disappointment of my caring family. I couldn't have been disappointed – not only had I seen it coming, I also welcomed it – it proved that I'm not thinking material and must search for a more simple career elsewhere.
I found some regret in a deep dark corner of my hearth for those lost years. How much could've been achieved, or lives saved? Or I just could've studied more. Maybe next life.
I was as alone as ever and started walking north.
The road was wide and the trees have died of pollution. The neverending fields were covered with autumn grayness and silent ravens. They gave me long knowing stares, and got into a more comfortable waiting position. They knew I wasn't going to die in the next moments. The batteries in my ipod went out and I listed to the wind rehearse for its winter symphonies. After a good phase or tone I cheered and the wind pushed me in the back thankfully. Why don't we have wings? I would've started running and I'd spread those wings and fly away, leaving only a few tail feathers that would be found by a young girl and burned with a lighter by her brother.

I came to a row of very tall trees covered in plastic bags that the artistic wind has brought from a nearby dump yard. It was a very sad look. The proud giants planted by our forefathers weren't even able to shed their leaves and fall into their gentle winter sleep. I hanged myself on my belt on the lowest branch of the lowest tree, purposefully. My life was not lost, no. I made space for someone more fit for these careless times. My soul sat up on a branch of the soul of my cherry tree, there was a huge white shepherd lying in its shade, panting.