I stand alone on a barren path. The earth is baked and hard, unyielding. The air hot and unforgiving. I see lush growth for miles around, birds sing and people jabber. I am here of my own doing, this path is of my choosing, though I did not know it when I chose. I stand alone on a barren path.

I have dressed myself. A bitter gag silences me. A thick, but worn leather straight jacket wraps me and ensure that only I can provide comfort to me. Pants woven of thorns providing masochistic joy with every step. My feet are bare against the earth. I have dressed myself.

A knife. Pearl handled with an emerald encrusted guard. It is nestled in my chest. I can remember buying you that knife. I can remember the day I placed it in your hand and forced it into my chest. My gift to you. A knife.

I can remember a time when I thought that my tears would at least water the ground. Maybe, just maybe, something would then grow around me. Unfortunately I was wrong. Nothing grows around me. If I take one step forward or back, left or right, everything that was once lush dies; and life springs up where only death existed. A two meter perimeter of, well, nothing, surrounds me. I have tried, God knows I have tried, to reach out. Back when the straight jacket was more of a fashion statement than an excellent example of its usefulness, I would reach out to a rose, a flower, even a random vine. Just to touch something alive. Only to watch it whither away before I could get close. Tired of trying, I tightened the straps and hugged myself into isolation. So, here I am. A man standing alone on a barren path...