The journey began a long time ago. It didn't seem like it then, it just seemed what she thought was like being inside the eye of a whirlwind, living inside it, surrounded by a wall of opposing forces that cancelled out. As long as she stayed inside, it was safe.
Time passed, and she figured it would be okay to venture out. By then the storm had moved across the sea and settled in a new place. When she looked out, it wasn't the desert of her memory. There were no empty spaces, but a dense population with varying degrees of white noise. And the damage in the storm's wake, was irreparable.
The desert was a holy place. It purified souls under orange skies and blazing heat. It killed thoughts that fogged the mind. Of course it did not seem that way then. A place is never the way it is in your head after time and space has passed. Then, it was hot; and the burning sand kept you on your feet running running towards the shimmering water that disappeared in the horizon.
And the fire consumed all that did not deserve to exist.
The desert is a holy place.
The desert is an empty place that allows you to fill it with any landscape you need at the time.
Where she came to, she had trouble breathing. Wet, humid air, filled with something that charged her skin, and made the surroundings smell of burned flesh. Is this what it's supposed to be like outside?
Then came other storms. Every time she set out on a new direction, different angels answered with their trumpets. Sometimes at cross purposes. Some drew her into the doldrums, some swallowed her whole and spit her out on nameless minor breezes.
And now the wind has carried her here. It left her bereft and alone, stationary. She is now in a different kind of desert. There is nothing holy here, just an emptiness that keeps reappearing like a clean canvas no matter what picture she paints in it.
Should she be thankful for the rest? Or had she died and didn't realize it?
