sand

Marooned in the desert. Blue sky offers no solace. The heat of the sun overwhelms everything. Feet poorly wrapped in rags, a pathetic excuse of protection of the scorching hot sand that runs like a dried up ocean for miles and miles. The hazy horizon wiggles in and out of temperature-controlled time. My body becomes a raisin in the sun, drying up, becoming depleted of water with every weak step I take, every spits’ worth particle of saliva I swallow. Lightheaded nausea. Sunburned body. The desert is like walking across hot coals. And when the sun sets and the moon comes out, with all the desert-dwelling nocturnal creatures, it will become so cold, I will be longing for this ridiculous heat. I will shiver into the night and pray not to be eaten or stung. If I walk in one direction for so long, I must be able to find a way out, right? I pick up a handful of this stuff and watch it slip through my fingers like an unfair hourglass. Frustrated and betrayed, I cast it to the ground. From it I wish an explosion would appear, or a means to teleport.