(no subject)
A quiet wind flows softly over the plains, invisible and silent, seen only in the whirls it creates in the sand. A twist of movement here, here a wisp of fine dust thrown carelessly into the air, its endless dance mesmerising and entrancing. To the skies it could fly, to dance high above the landscape, spiralling to and fro, there and back again, and all the while being thrown caution and sympathy as it breaks into a thousand pieces, the plains torn into plumes of dust and the wisps torn into grains of sand, each one of the tiny particles tracing a different path across the eternal sky. A million journeys through the clouds, a million different stories to tell. But all will fall back into the ground, to become once again a part of the desert below, sifting forever as its children fly up and down, a cycle of forever and never, dust travelling across a void and back, each grain passing a thousand times, better chances, worse chances, reaching higher, reaching further, maybe staying in the air for centuries, centuries and aeons without time. A thousand cycles reach beyond understanding, and beyond that lay millions more, further than any will see. But maybe there will be something more, something beyond the infinity of the races and the sands. Perhaps one grain will achieve something else, not just higher, or lower, or any other differences in it’s existence, passing past forever until the plains have ended and the sands are giving way to hills of green, hills of life and death, instead of cycles and series, hills beyond hills beyond hills. And maybe there is another place beyond the vastness of hills, an eternity beyond an eternity beyond an eternity, and maybe a grain will reach it someday. Maybe one already has.