The composition of life is the least finite and tangible experience in the human condition. Like sand, life slips through the cracks of our minds, hearts, and hands. Never can it be fully attained or appreciated. Our mind is composed of infinite memories, experiences, and emotions creating vast dunes of turbulence. The small grains that make up the desolate desert are constantly filling a deepening void within. The vastness of the empty internal desert sends us on an unfulfilled voyage in the outside world, forever seeking the oasis of pure bliss and happiness. Always empty within, we desperately try to grab as much as we can carry. The illusion of a mirage fools many, while propelling man to stumble and falter for a sip of sheer fantasy.

We wander the barren vastness seeking content and belonging. Constantly pondering about the various substances that make up the lustrous sand, man deceives himself with knowledge. The grains are much too small and unique to understand. Millions upon trillions make a single dune in the presence of many. The foot which sinks too deep will be stuck forever without direction, so we keep on moving. The minimal presence of the sun beckons light into the starch darkness, but it lasts only so long before the darkness sets in and the predators walk astray. Alone, in the still of the night, we lay cowardice to the unknown which during the day was so plain and apparent. Vulnerable we shut our eyes and pray for the light to burn ablaze for just one more day so we can seek another way. The gusting winds sting the eyes with sand, thus materializing images of the once so distant past. Each grain carries a memory lost to time and only awakens when the majestic winds wail in spite. The cycle is long, the day’s light brutal, the nights filled with fear, but we continue to strive for freedom in the midst of absolute desolation. There is hope to reach an oasis in the deceptive eyes of man, but the embedded dryness of our hands tell another story of struggle. A story where the journey prolongs until transient death; seeking until we become the sand in which we dread to stand.

We are alone. Nomads to our barren minds. Sifting through sand, making sense of what we have. Nothing makes sense, the journey is far too long, the escape always seems so near, but the scent of death makes us whimper and conceal our true desire for closure. We stumble to understand.

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