A man sat down next to me in the park and asked why I was holding a bloody tissue on my foot. I explained; I'd been walking off some frustration when I, overwhelmed and generally pissed off, lashed out and kicked a pine tree.

"Did it help?" Asked the man.
I paused to consider, "A little bit."
"How's the tree?"
"Unimpressed."

He smiled a little, nodded, then reached into his backpack to find a bottle of water. he handed it to me. "For your foot - wash the blood off and it won't look so bad."

He spoke again; "So what's the problem?"
"Huh?"
"The tree, why attack a tree?"

I looked at him from the corner of my eye. He seemed normal. Name brand clothing and backpack, and older than I, he probably worked at the university. He had that professor-ish aura. I couldn't see why not, and so I shrugged and told him the whole story.

"That sounds just awful."
"Yah, well, hence the tree kicking-- I just can't seem to make it all end."
"It'll get better, you know. All of that frustration and hurt and fruitless worrying will go away."
"I don't see how you could know. I may be chronic."

He sighed and leaned backwards, stretching his arms across the back of the bench.

"I suppose I don't know for sure. But there are a lot of trees in this forest; you can kick them all... some more than once."

"Not right now. My foot is swollen, look. It hurts to walk."
"Yep."
"'Yep' what?"
"That's it exactly."
"I don't get it."
"Nope. You don't."
"...."

He laughed.

Eventually he stood up, turning back to me he said, "Look, I'm serious, you don't know me, but trust me, I'm not crazy, nor is it a hobby of mine to mess with the heads of strangers in the park. Think about it, you'll understand it."

________

I welcome any ideas