What is it that the desert tells me? Grow. Push up. Split rock. Endure. Death bears life. Stones have names. Shadows can be read like recipes. The air is thin here, and it’s hard for me to breathe, but it’s in the struggle for breath that I learn to love my living.
There are patterns in the sand made by wind, and rainwater. And they remain until some greater force, removes them. Why, when I return to the place where I once walked, do my footprints remain? Why is my cup still sitting on the shelf?
They call it physics. Objects at rest. But I do not believe it has anything to do with laws as conceived by man. Objects simply lack volition, means of locomotion. Otherwise my footprints would wander, and my cup would dance.
The desert moves, slowly. It rises and falls and shifts. This stillness is an illusion, just like time is for us. Motion is the illusion of power, but true power resides in stillness. These sands are the true kings of the desert, an armada of ships, nocturnal on a sea tectonic.