The leaves have all fallen. They are gone now, whipped away into disrepair and disarray. Autumn came soon, much too soon for you or I. Soon the snows will fall and cover these bare branches, but until then we must gaze up at the exposed bark, sullen gray and reluctant to open to the sky that veils its face in turn. I shall veil my face also.
Listen to me boy. You stand there, alone, ever alone, with fallen shoulders and fallen bundle of wood by the wayside. You have dirt on your pants, dirt on your shoes from walking along this lonely stretch, this forsaken rut where you thought no one would come. Just you and the popular trees, weary and bent, a long row of sentinels to watch your solitary path. Did you think anyone would follow you? Did you hope that perhaps someone would? I see you staring out, a defeated slump in your shoulders, as if Atlas finally gave up his duty and let the weight fall on your back.
If you were hoping someone would come than you are badly mistaken. This is a lonely road – you chose it for that reason. No one followed your singular footsteps, no one walked behind your shadow. Just us then, us, the trees, and the sky. Did you think someone would come save you? That hope will vanish like the autumn leaves, broiled away by the slow march of time, whisked away by the frivolity of the wind. Utterly forsaken, boy. Paint your world in drab grays and browns, add a splash of black. You can borrow my paintbrush; I've learned to use it well, so shall you. Now pick up your burden and keep making those dusty footsteps in this winding road. Watch the trees bow over your head and cry the last leaf of fall. This is what it means to be alone. This is what it means to be forsaken. This is what it means.