Drifting. A desolate island of deserts and light. And you journey across in the desperate hope of finding the answers to this and to that. It pains you. But nevertheless, it develops discretely, this dramatic backdrop. You draw a line in the sand. Often enough it means something, other times, it’s just symbolic. Your desire to make sense of it all dominates every movement, every decision, every deranged attempt at normalcy.
I am dreaming. Feeling good, still. Devoured a disgracefully large amount of pistachios and oranges. In my dream, I am writing. Somewhat. I am trying to be focused or inspired, or both. I sometimes struggle to tell those apart. One is, for sure, the inspiration to create or destroy, as I see fit, the other, however, encompasses discipline to channel the former. Or not. I do sometimes find both rather difficult; sometimes I’m missing just the one.
I respire a lung-full of uninspiring air, crisp, yet also crispy with sand and with salt. This iodine fragrance of microscopic particles cuts iron-flavoured sores in my throat. It causes me to cough, or choke, or whisper this unfathomable, senseless diatribe that races through my mind at any and all given moments. I am disruptively reminded of the diabolical definition of my duties. Dishevelled by my sole drafty companion – a desert of lights and distress. I’d imagine… A deeper, more meaningful musing that offers direction and solace. I’d follow. If one day it whisks me, that is. I digress. And it dawns on me, ever so often.