This land is flat, and naked. Riddled with a thousand fissures, branching out like roots, tangled and deep. Dust rises with every step, the dissipated bodies of too many souls. Now clinging to my skin, desperate to be alive again. Now seeping into my lungs, jealous of my breath.
This desert goes on for miles. But the horizon shimmers, dances at the edge of my vision. It is my dream, my hope, my promise. The reason behind each step. Trick of the eyes, the sun cackles, but I keep on walking. From overhead, the sky stares, that lidless blue eye. It will not weep over me.
This body is so heavy. I want to curl into my shadow and disappear. I want to diminish into dust and float away upon the breeze. I want to dig down into the heart of the earth and bury my body there. I want, I want, I want. I am always wanting.
This is the verge. I cannot see the other side. I only hear whispers, but I am still confident. I will see, I will see, I will see. (That day, my words, will echo: my ears had heard, but now my eyes have seen...) The goodness. In the land (this land) of the living.