maybethisname

As I get older, I find my thoughts drifting to the desert more often.
I am wandering over the frozen waves , undulating swells of clean sand that move unhurried, uninterested in mine, or anyone elses concerns, fears, loves and actions.
I can feel the sun on me, the wind whispering across the expanse.
I want to be naked there, I want to rub the sand over my body.
I want to climb the wind-carved butresses of stone, jutting from the sand like bones of long dead leviathans. I can smell nothing but the occasional sage brush that clings to life around these outcroppings.
At night, it grows cool, and the heavens reveal themselves here like they do nowhere else.
If I could crouch against the day-warmed rock, listening to the scurryings of the animals that come alive in the cool desert night, I could be clear of mind.
Evidence of my passage would be erased soon after it was made, footprints dissapearing.
When I die, the sun will drain the fluids from me, and the sand and wind wear me down to bones. Eventually, my bones would join the sand, and I would be part of the low and empty moan of wind and dust across the slow dry ocean, and it is my turn to carve rock and wear down all things here.