Lucid Sands

by the not-so-lucid mind

Golden sands surround me. Spreading sheets lay soft on the ground, layer upon layer of silk. Little grains of  millions. The vastness and minuscule detail of something so big made of something so small. I grasp onto it hard, and the grains slip through my hand and fall back to join the rest. The coarse matter, something so harsh yet fluid.

I sit down and close my eyes. The warmth envelop me and I breathe in the salty air. The warmness pulse through me. It starts from my back and moves down my spine and extends to my arms and legs, calm waves of the heat moving through and washing out. Sweat runs down my temple. I do not wipe it away, I have no want to do so. I am comfortable here.

The wind wisps and I hear the echoes carried from the infinite spaces around. With shut eyes, I imagine the far reaches of the world. In the far North there would be the cold ice caps. Ah, the whiteness. The cold. And an involuntary shiver runs through me, but it subsides almost instantly and the heat runs through me again. To the east, the great jungles of Asia and the forests filled with strange creatures. To the west, the great cities with their people-filled streets. The crowd, the noise, the stench. I am happy to be away from these. To the south, I do not know. I have not been there.

But I am here, no more I imagine of where I am. It does not matter. I am here. I am nowhere. And I am at peace.

Then the voice of consciousness says, "Fuck! Stop this fucking nonsense. You are going to die out here."