A Desert Mountain

Tonight I am imagining the wilderness as dusk in the desert, while the sun shimmies its way down to the horizon, and all the living things slink away into the shade. The heat was almost unbearable today. Miles of sand in front of me, miles behind me. The sand, infinite. The effort of every step, quickly erased and replaced by teeming grains of the next. Yet sometimes I would close my eyes and for a moment, allow the sun to embrace me. In those moments, I could hear nothing but my heart steel-drumming in my chest, taste nothing but salt and air, and feel nothing but the beads of sweat poised on my skin's surface, ready to freefall straight into the sandy nothingness. For a moment, it was peaceful.

But now, as the sun sets, the wilderness feels wilder than ever. The animals have gone home, and even the sky has told me, until next time, and there's still all that sand for miles and miles. The mountains looked interesting at one point, but now they are colossal, hulking things, whispering even if you get here, you won't make it over. It's the mountains or everything behind me now.

I glance behind me, and remember staggering through the sweltering heat with a strange fondness. I know, it doesn't make sense. But the mountains look darker than ever. Larger than ever. And the sun is nowhere in sight. And each step I take is the same sinking nothing. And the animals are laughing at me. But this isn't really a choice, is it? The mountains have always been there, and the way forward has always been up and over.

If I squint my eyes, the mountains look like a painting I saw once. It was blue and smudged, and I'm sure meant to mean peace or something, but all I could think was, why are the mountains moving? Are they supposed to move like that?

Am I supposed to move like this? Am I supposed to move like that? Is the wilderness supposed to have this much sand?