He’d run out of wishes, the last one had disappeared into a field of indifference.
The scene in front of him was one of desolation save for the riot of colour symbolising the many hopes of folk more optimistic than him.
What was the point he asked himself, it’s a game, a torment we subject ourselves to when a moment of clarity would reveal the pointlessness of it all?
He could see in the distance a man struggling with a cart. It appeared to be loaded with his worldly possessions, the weight obvious, but he laboured his eyes focused on some imaginary nirvana.
On another road a woman hurried along, she clutched a baby in her arms, holding it tightly she constantly looked back signalling a pursuer, was not far behind and she sought refuge urgently.
Both characters merged on a crossroad and as he watched neither seemed to get any closer to their destination.
Had they exhausted hope as well he wondered?
He looked again at the tree, now dangling in the sunlight, each colour splashing his sight with a futile dream.
He wondered if he should rain on their parade and tell them.
Best not he thought, let them discover their own impotence.