The Silent Desert

The desert is a silent place. It is lonely, and forsaken. Yet, I find a certain amount of solace in the idea of the desert.

I have written many things, longhand, in journals, about this metaphorical desert. So much have I done so, that I often neglect the writings here. I do not know if anyone even looks at these writings. I find that I have nothing, and everything, to say. Once I access the speech centers of my brain, and resign them to expression, through writing, or typing, as the case may be, I can often go off on a tangent that lasts many pages.

The desert I must cross is the blank pages of a journal. It is the white blankness of a dialogue box. It is trying to fill the hours, and the empty spaces, with words. These words may, or may not have meaning. They may, or may not touch a human soul.

As I do not always live my day-to-day life with the utmost zest, or responsibility, I am often confined, here, in this desert of sorts. I realize that I can leave, anytime I like. The faster-than-light speed of human thought can take me anywhere, so long as the place I am going is someplace, of which, I have the slightest bit of knowledge, or first hand experience. The other places thought takes me are more fanciful. My desert is both. It is medatative device, and thought experiment. It is running something up the proverbial flagpole, to see if it waves. The desert is a twilight zone of memories, both good, and otherwise. The desert is all about me, but it can also be all about anyone. The desert will not judge, but the desert can punish. The desert is where you can pour forth your cups of tears, and your laughter. Almost Biblical in proportions, the desert, by itself, knows no dogma, and is only orthodox, unto itself. The desert is my home, and my prison, and if you know human beings, you may find that a little bit of the desert is in each and every one of us.