Wanderlust

She grabbed her bag to bring with her the things she needed the most... A few rolls of multicolored textile, an aluminum can of compressed chemical perfume, nylon bags to keep things from getting wet, some protective medicinal patches, bits of odd currency, a pen, rubber soled gloves, and a cloak of black she's carried about her since sometime ago.

She walked into a myriad of haze, from a small box of red with cold wind blowing onto her face, to a path of low-lying concrete gray pillars. She always had to buy rations from the small side shop, frequently trying different combinations, but eventually choosing a mixture of herb infused liquid and some sweet, nourishing manna, believing that they will help her get through her end-goal. Before her journey reaches the large, glass doors at the end of the path, she will cautiously place the patches she bought with her, on to her, to shield her from whatever lies beyond the glass doors.

A thousand times. A million dreams. An infinity of attempted failures. Wistfully looking back from the path whence she came, she gives a quiet, sad smile... and a thought that she will only know herself... and walks on ahead.

Organic, inorganic all coming together in a symphony of sublime chaos. Abstract, concrete, uncertainly, surity, all a blanket on top of a slick, multicolored oil, dangerously swishing and swirling like non linear grains of hissing sand. She closes her eyes, steps in, and carefully draws out her totems of strength, and draws her own deep breath.

Cross legged, she sits. Eyes closed, she dreams. Hands and feet still, she waltzes. An hour is a minute, a month is a day, a decade is a year. She will laugh, she will talk, she will write, she will move... but all the while, she is sitting, on the same sandy spot, with sands hissing, colors merging, chaos moving... silent, steady, sitting, cross legged.

One day she will open her eyes, and all chaos will stop. But leave her be, for now. End will always come, the day after tomorrow.