I am in a wasteland. A hot, arid wasteland. The name people have given to this type of place is desert. It is called desert because it has been deserted by every living thing; there is no life out here. I live in this place. This is a place where sand scrubs every trace of anything away. The sun beats down on everything, leaving nothing but bleached bones and sand dunes. This place is abandoned- everything has been left to waste. It is forsaken, just like me.
The desert has a kind of serene beauty. The landscape is always changing; it never remains the same. Every track you leave is obliterated within seconds by the ever-blowing sand. It looks like nothing has ever touched it. The desert is silent, devoid of any other human sound. It is peaceful. The heat purges it of all taints; the desert is pure.
At dusk when the heat starts to leave and little creatures begin to stir, I sit and watch. I watch the beautiful sunsets display their colors across the sky. Then the cold starts. Creeping slowly, it probes you with icy fingers until it makes you run for cover. I sleep huddled up in whatever cover I can find, be it sand or rocks, any cover is welcome. The night has its own sort of beauty, however. The sky is clear, and there are stars peeping out of every corner. The air is fresh and clean because there isn’t as much sand blowing around. If you can ignore the bone-chilling cold, you might want to sleep out under the night sky.
I can’t feel pain or hunger anymore- I just feel tired and deadened. The sun continues beating down on me, and the sand continues blowing. Vultures are flying overhead like silent sentries, witnesses to my defeat. Maybe I should give up: after all, I would finally be one with the beautiful desert. My exile has taught me one thing: there is beauty everywhere- even in death.