Post by Winston on Nov 11, 2009 22:41:24 GMT -5
Good grammar is not a given.
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The desert, the heat radiating, burning sun, blinding light and endless hilly terrain filled with cracked, parched dirt and scraggly tress. Nothing too good, nothing hinting towards a good life. Yet it calls, in a way, making it seem good to run. Go until collapse throws the ground up, or body down. Perspective of such things are lost, the heat too maddening, the sun having stolen any water for itself. How rude, how selfish, but exhaustion beats any desire to argue or to even put up a protest. Thickening blood, dehydration more real than ever could have been imagined previously. Slowed senses, dull ringing of the ears. Symptoms, warnings, preliminary signs of impending death or destruction. Never can be free from the desert again, despite best efforts, even a crawl is unbearable after a period of anguishing time. Darkness welcomed as sight goes, the light too painful, too blinding, too taunting and harsh. But death is more unwelcome than might have been thought. Instinct overpowering thought. Must survive. Must go on, continue, breath in and out and in and so on, but with each breath more water, more hydration is given in sacrifice to the unforgiving air. Too starved and parched itself to care for others. But there is no oasis. No hope. Nothing, until the vultures pick out the eyes. Tear the flesh. Eat the remains. Run, run, until you fall.
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The desert, the heat radiating, burning sun, blinding light and endless hilly terrain filled with cracked, parched dirt and scraggly tress. Nothing too good, nothing hinting towards a good life. Yet it calls, in a way, making it seem good to run. Go until collapse throws the ground up, or body down. Perspective of such things are lost, the heat too maddening, the sun having stolen any water for itself. How rude, how selfish, but exhaustion beats any desire to argue or to even put up a protest. Thickening blood, dehydration more real than ever could have been imagined previously. Slowed senses, dull ringing of the ears. Symptoms, warnings, preliminary signs of impending death or destruction. Never can be free from the desert again, despite best efforts, even a crawl is unbearable after a period of anguishing time. Darkness welcomed as sight goes, the light too painful, too blinding, too taunting and harsh. But death is more unwelcome than might have been thought. Instinct overpowering thought. Must survive. Must go on, continue, breath in and out and in and so on, but with each breath more water, more hydration is given in sacrifice to the unforgiving air. Too starved and parched itself to care for others. But there is no oasis. No hope. Nothing, until the vultures pick out the eyes. Tear the flesh. Eat the remains. Run, run, until you fall.
