Many a day I've walked along, through varying tones of tan and blue – split at the horizon – through lands naked as earth will allow itself to be. My nap sack bore the scares of time in the form of several tears; some mended, others not. Calloused hands and taut muscle bore witness to a life of labored survival. A wrinkled brow implies years of introspective contemplation. In the desert life is hard so you keep moving, body and mind – keep things limber. If I walked until the soles of my feet blistered, popped and oozed pus in protest, I'll know I've gotten to wherever I was going and I would rest until fit to journey again.
When I knocked on your door, you answered with dripping, moisture darkened hair, wrapped in a towel. You offered lemonade, ham and eggs, and your body. It must be lonely in the desert, I deduced. What I couldn't cognate was how you managed such a well stocked fridge or why precious water would be wasted on priming.
Yes, the miles of ambulating over shifting, wind-swept dunes, and desiccated flats, had left me wanting for anything that would make me feel more human. I sucked the moisture from your hair as we made love, face to face. I was born anew. With feet bound, I started off again on my great journey, to whatever place is as far as I can go. You took another shower. I would have loved to stay but the isolated comfort of that place seemed too placating – stagnation, to me, translates as death, in spite of the fact that every journey ends the same.
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Wait! Before you leave these here interwebs, make your way to these fine reads:
Andrew Kaspereen's disconnecting from the missing link, is a powerful gut-check.
Remind yourself what it means to be human with Paul Mullin's The other us.
