I walk and I walk. The sands rush across my boots like a golden river. The desert seems to stretch across the entirety of my vision; going on and on for miles upon miles. At this point, I struggle to comprehend that it ever began and wrestle with the idea of it ever ending. I haven't a clue where I'm going, and I feel like the reminiscing thoughts of anything before this desert are either distant memories or hopeful dreams. Dreams of something wonderful, magical and mundane, outside of the ocean of sand and sun. My life never had a past, it will not have a future. The only part of my life is this present desert and everything it holds within. For, within, it holds everything. It creates such solitary feelings and imagines, for you, some solidarity between the heat, the sand and you. It encourages the mental birth of a complex and dramatic life where everything happens, but nothing goes anywhere. Your imagination wants to escape from this place to somewhere better, but your mind is in contrast. Your mind knows this is where it has always been and it knows denial of that is a ticket to death.
