The hot sun is suddenly unbearable, the desert sands torture on his blistered, bleeding feet. There is no recourse, no respite. He has walked for miles, even his footprints erased by the shifting sands. Perhaps he has simply been walking in circles, there’s no way to tell. The realization leaves him paralyzed. Another step isn’t possible. He is drained of will. He just wants to give up the fight. What was he fighting for? The war wounds are there, obvious, bleeding, scars abound. But what was the battle all about?

He had put on a fine show for his companions along the way. Shared many jokes, tall tales and nights of passion. They had watched the starlit skies above and marveled at their places in the universe. They had shared their joys and sorrows and traversed an arc or two together. Then some hastened their steps others fell behind, while he was left alone, once again. Alone with his thoughts, his hopes, his dreams within his living dream.

He wants to sit down now, to let the shifting dunes cover him, entomb him. His reality has spiraled down and converged to a pinpoint of pain, its origins within the blisters on his feet. That is all he is, that’s all he feels. Enough is enough and there has to be a time for the struggle to end. Maybe if he just sat down, stopped fighting, stopped resisting, the blisters would heal.

He closes his eyes and lies down. At peace. No struggle, no strife. He feels the others around him, in constant motion, running after nameless, faceless dreams and visions. They don’t feel their blisters yet.

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