Black Desert

Black sand

Shadows

Dark waters

There is no color here.

It has been leached away as color leaches from bones until there is nothing left that is not raw and bare and exposed.

Far, far ahead, I can see there are mountains.

I must get to them, go over them, though I can’t remember why. Immediately in front of me, an endless track of black sand beside dark water.

There are no gentle shushing sounds, as water would lap a shore. The inky depths are calm and still, like glass. No birds fly. No animals call. No wind blows. If my feet make noise on the sand, then I do not hear it. Before me, the land is flat and I can see for miles. I am utterly alone.

Yet, if I look closely at the sand, I begin to see other footsteps, all heading in one direction. Did their owners ever make it to the mountains? Are they still trying?

I cannot recall my purpose in attaining the mountains, only that this is my goal and that I must reach it. Or else what? Or else be lost, I suppose. With each step, it feels as though another memory flies away. And I become a little more detached.

Step. A child of 10 blowing out candles with a blue sparkly hat, gone before I can wonder if that was myself.

Step. A boy with curly sand colored hair and a coaxing smile holding out his hand, gone.

A room full of bright spotlights in my eyes, an audience, I have wings, I speak, I fly, I am gone away.

A little girl with pigtails and a trusting smile looking up at me and holding my hand with both of her arms wrapped around it, as though she will never let go. No, please stay. Gone.

With every step, every moment, another piece of me departs. Soon there will be nothing of me left but the single thought - I must reach the mountains.

Why am I trying to reach the mountains again?

Step. A barking black dog with a silky coat jumping up excitedly on a child who falls over and screams with fear, gone.

Blue eyes smiling at me from a hollowed face. The feel of a soft papery hand holding mine. The smell of old spice. Gone.

Did these ever belong to me? It feels as though I am watching someone else’s life.

The mountains seem no closer.

Somehow, I know that I will find what I am looking for if I can just reach them.

In places, I see where some of the footprints in the sand have stopped.

Is it my imagination? My thoughts escape me. Are there fewer footprints than there used to be?

Step. Fingers with uneven nails and a pink bandage on a pointer finger flying rapidly across a keyboard, gone.

Red itchy skin on my shoulders that I am straining my gaze to see as I peel a satisfyingly long single layer of skin, gone

I trip, my fingers contacting and digging into the soft powdery sand. It puffs up in a small glittery black cloud before falling again to the ground and moving no more. What did I trip over? A mound in the sand? My own feet? Another’s footprint? Slower than I would like, I push myself back to my feet and continue.

Step. Dreaming of a lost child, the panic seeping into my pores while I search, waking to see her asleep beside me. Gone

So tired. My feet are dragging now. Long wavy lines in the black sand. There are definitely fewer footprints in the sand. Some seem recent. I could have sworn I just saw a new one pop up in front of another, like they are still being made. Yet I see no one around for miles but myself. Miles and miles. Why am I still walking? Who am I trying to satisfy?

Step. A dim room with kind faces smiling at me, sad smiles? Gone.

Two children, squabbling again, over something trivial. I can’t stand the constant bickering and yell at them. Their eyes widen and then tear and I am a monster. I am ashamed. Gone.

Gone.

Gone.

All gone. Why am I still here? What do I need that is there? What am I trying to prove and to who?

There are fewer footsteps in the sand now. I can easily distinguish those that have stopped and those that continue and are continuing, on.

Still, it is always so still here, never a sound. My ears feel blocked and yet they are not, no movement besides my own feet, almost.

So tired. Rest. I just need to stop. To cease.

Step. Pain. Suffocating, life ending. A soft warm solid hand holding mine which I try so hard to cling to with both hands. Gone.

Enough.

There is nothing farther than here. I am here. This is where I shall be.

Engulfed in the desert’s parched silence, I am nothing but another grain of sand in the wind.