White dust

  Between white and grey. He walked between two mirrors of no images. It does not matter for how long, as there is no thirst or hunger. No sun to show the day, no moon to indicate the night, no stars to have an ending. 

  Once he paused, puzzled by a shadow of distant mountains. But then they were gone, as he guessed it out. The same for echoes of distant steps floating in sound waves on a distance - everything was a mere illusion. Two sheets of white and grey merging into a distant line of the horizon was all of the reality he had. 

And the dust. Microscopic dust of the desert, getting everywhere. With some measure of effort he could recall that he was bare foot, in black skin jacket and blue jeans. But it did not matter, really.

  Just keep the walking, step by step, and please don't count or you will loose your mind. 

  He was checking his compass more often then it was required - if you can diplomatically call dozen looks per step a simple over checking. But don't blame him - the compass, this poor little thing, had a soul of a trickster: once it keeps the road straight, other times it pretends to be a helicopter spinning wildly. Or it can play dead and not react at all, as was the case this time. And who wants to go in circles in the empty desert, even if there are no borders? Moving somewhere feels better. 

  Just don't stop, left and right. Left and right. Of course those legs are heavy.

  Orange calming sunset, bathing the living in a golden shower. Deep blue clouds, getting shy and pink because of that much attention, they flew to disappear in some distant rain. The airplane, always visible and always present on the evening sky, traced the sky in day and night halves. Fresh forest air, getting mixed with crispy breath of coming night shout out himself to the yet empty sky in the last songs of birds and murmurous whispers of a river patiently passing nearby. 

  The moment recalled passed away in a horror of  understanding that he had stopped moving. In contrary he was bending on one knee, his forehead touching the hard ground. Wake up! Wake up!

  But why should I stand up? What the difference would it make? Does not the compass just guides me to my grave? What the difference would it be for me to finish here or there? May be my little fellow just writes 'You lived hard your senseless and empty life.' with my footsteps, in a letters so big, that I can't recognize it?  The grave will be a dot then, so it's the same.

  What is so special about my next step? What will be was. Two seconds, or two days, or two millenniums. What was will be. Only the hard ground beneath the tiny white dust blanket, grey sky and flatness whenever you can see.

  So why do the next step - I can camp here as others did. Build a shelter from the dust, with no roof and little-finger high walls. It required life-long repairs but was good enough for them.

  Because deep inside of me I know that it's not enough for me? This is my curse and my blessing, all the same. So I wake up. And do the most important step - the next step.