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Desert of Words

I am a wanderer in a desert of words.

Each grain of sand is a single word.

Words from long ago to the distant than.

Some sink, unheard, unspoken for millennia.

Others burn my skin, not to be soon forgotten.

They flow together forming hills, shaping stories.

They ride the wind, letting me glance at their brilliance before they drift out of sight, out of mind, once more.

I want to grasp them all in my hand, travel with them, build with them, share them with the sky… and yet, even now as I reach for those elusive words, I feel the heat of the sun, the critics, the naysayers, telling me it is too much to carry such a burden as a voice.

Without a cloud of confidence in the sky to shield me, I feel compelled to let the sand slip through my fingers and continue to wander the desert empty handed.

Occasional on my wanderings I will come across an oasis, a place where a single idea has taken hold and grows.

There are many others at these oases, some are friendly, others are not, but all are trying to delve deeper into the water that brought them there.

I sometimes find myself peering into those depths, and yet I never seem willing to take the plunge.

I may see something whilst I look, but I never say anything to anyone.

Is it the fear of what my fellow divers might say?

Or is my greed, wanting to protect what I know?

Either way I tend to leave the oasis and continue wandering.

I never forget where I have been though, and always, always, wonder what if?

What if I took the plunge? What if I told someone?

My only solace comes in believing that someone else peered into those waters and has seen what I saw.

I have seen the end of the desert many times.

It is a lush forest where many ideas have become firmly rooted.

The trees grow tall and the branches spread wide, entangling with others as they do.

Their leaves are so big the sky cannot hope to view the world below.

As the trees wrap their vines around each other, strengthening deals, many in the undergrowth try to latch on, wanting to grow big as well and be seen.

Few are successful though, as the trees, deep rooted ideas they may be, often extend their roots up from the ground to protect themselves from any one trying to steal their ideas.

These roots can often be vicious, ripping to shreds the one that tried to grab at their branches.

So instead those below look for fallen trees, whose roots no longer protect their ideas.

Most of the undergrowth will die in this forest never seeing the sky it longs for.

I leave this place to look for a friendly place to be.

In the desert there is a dark, perverse cave.

As I peer in from the entrance, I can see a glimpse of shadows below.

Dark ideas, so twisted they would burn alive if the sun ever saw them.

Still, my eyes are drawn to that abyss.

Blackened shapes dance happily in the crevices, not caring if one should catch them in their revelry.

As I stare at the unadulterated expression of life I feel the heat on my back ever increasing.

It finally gets to the point that I can no longer stand at the edge of this cave.

I either must delve into the darkness, knowing I may never return to the surface, or walk away, leaving behind a part of me I know exists deep inside.

The fear of what I might lose should I take that plunge is too much, and so I choose the latter and continue to aimlessly wander the desert.

I once saw a fellow wanderer.

We noticed each other and knew at once we were kindred spirits, and yet we still said nothing.

I could share everything with this compatriot, but what if they took it and ran away.

A chance could be taken and words shared, our individual ideas growing.

We would both feel enriched from the exchange.

We could even wander sometime together.

Eventually, though, it will come time for us to part.

What is it that will make them wander one way and me another?

Will I ever meet another such as them?

I would ask myself these questions many times after our departure.

In the end we pass by each other with nothing more than a nod and I continue my wanderings alone.

As night comes to the desert, I hoped the lack of the sun burning down on me would have made it easier to shape the sand, but this place has become cold and barren.

The longed for sky has gone dark save for the individuals whose sight is so scattered they would not see a dot on the sand like me.

I try to build, however, since I doubt anyone will see it, I quickly lose the strength to carry on.

Instead, as the cold unfeeling air howls around, I lay down to rest and hope for a better tomorrow.

For years I wandered this desert, too afraid to make a mistake.

These time-blown sands, though, remind me they wait for no one, and having oneself drift from one idea to another, never letting any take root, is no way to be.

So, on these ever shifting sands, I will plant my seeds.

I will climb the tallest trees, reach into the deepest depths of the cave, and swim till I ache.

I will be seen by the sky.

And should the sun come for me?

Let it burn me to a crisp so I too might float on the desert wind.

Let me inspire those who come after me, the fellow wanders whose journey has just begun.