Colors and Tastes.

I could sense the dust sting my face as it flew to me. I could feel the hotness of the sun bearing on my head, sweat trickling down my back and neck. I could taste the dirt in my mouth. Just dirt. Nothing else.

What kind of child desires the desert like it was Paris or London? What kind of child craves for the heat and the dirt? I missed the place where dirt stuck to you like flies to honey.

Possibly it wasn’t a good comparison but I had no photos of Mexico. But I felt that Egypt was the best substitute for it. I could remember the weather and it closely matched a documentary of the Desert. I didn’t care which desert as long as it was a desert.

Now whenever I think of the wastelands, I think of those times I would draw yellow on my paper and call it art. Where I would imagine I was finding another pyramid with new knowledge about how early humans used to live. I think of the times I would play Indiana Jones with my cousins and pretend we were treking across the yellow earth for treasure.