The dusty road stretches on and on as far as the eye can see. The wind picking up particles of the gritty sand and swirling them around in a cloud of dust and debris.
The sound of it is somehow soothing, the gentle rustling of it a balm to a wounded soul.
And as the tears make tracks down my cheeks, I wonder if any amount of balm will ever heal the deep wounds of my soul.
Or if they will just continue to bleed freely, a crimson river flowing into a sinister lake of blood.
As I walk this lonely road alone, I can't help but hope that someone will come along and rescue me from it, lifting me up and carrying me away from the desperate pain and sorrow I feel myself drowning in.
The walls are closing in, the air thickening and harder to breathe. I feel myself being smothered slowly in it.
And yet I relish in it, embrace it even, until I feel the last breathe about to leave my body before the wall suddenly fall back, the air thinning out, becoming breathable again.
I take long slow lungs of it to the very core of me, feeling it waking me up, making me feel alive again.
And when I look up to see who has saved me from my ultimate demise, I see no one, but I hear a clear, liquid note carrying on the wind, a song of some sort. And with it comes hope of a brighter day.
Hope that I won't just be left in the dust.