Each step kicks up more sand, it looks white. The lack of a sun (it's just permanently night, no question. I don't even wonder about it) has the ambient temperature a curious cold. The way the particles scatter makes me think of my breath when I exhale the right way. I can see myself breathing if I can't hear myself breathing. The sand gets carried by the wind. It looks not beige, but grey, but not grey, more white than grey. Bone colored or people's ashes. The sick thought chokes back ice brings back memories I don't have but want to feel in place of knowing what decimation means.
The horizon taunts me. Although I stop here and there to catch my breathe, the gesture remains symbolic. Fatigue doesn't set in. My blood sugar doesn't tug me down. My eyes don't blink less than they should, their lids don't sag down. Just drawn towards what eludes me. Expectation slipping into the stage in my mind my intersubjective vision watches over. While I wait for something to happen, notice something, any sign of life, the dusty sand below me looks more and more pallid. A reminder that when everyone goes, it's really happening.
Though nothing's meant to last, finality keeps its head above the rising tides of fatality. Smiling, almost. I find my peer in the fiend of finality; I've always aspired to be the last one standing, to postpone my inevitable while hastening everyone else's self-deception. The brightness of each grain, too thin to be sand, convinces me that someone may have beaten me to it. That I am stepping on the back of holocaust frightens me and seduces me. I think of this drawing of a cyclone rubbed on my forehead with burnt palm ashes that I would used to get; a picture of my nausea, my dizziness. Implying sickness when anticipated in its absence keeps me warm, busy.
Also: thepatient.org &: a pseudonomynous novel about the high cost of reifications used to heal.