You should listen to it while you read, I think. Maybe then it might make sense to someone.
It's meant to be read slowly, like the drabble Rain.
December 25, 2010
She’s been walking for a long time.
She can’t remember how long, exactly. She remembers leaving her house—packing her small bag, slipping on her shoes, and starting off. She didn’t know where she was going. Though she told herself not to, she looked over her shoulder. The house was lonely, but she couldn’t fix that.
And now she’s walking. All the days meshed together, and the thing that’s most real to her now is the pain in her feet. She finds it hard to get used to.
The house was empty when she left it. There wasn’t anything left for her, not after it was all said and done. It didn’t matter, though—not to her. She had decided long before that she was leaving.
Where was the only thing she wasn’t sure of.
That didn’t matter, though. At first it was all beautiful, achingly so. There was a solemn sepia beauty surrounding her, regret in the midst of perfection.
It didn’t matter what was regretted, either.
The regret remained, when the way became gritty and cold. Though the sun hid behind the clouds, it never really left, and since it was there, all was still painfully beautiful.
She never knew where she was going.
She doesn’t know where she is going.
But, being led, it doesn’t matter. She’s not at all apprehensive—just open and raw to the throbbing, lovely world around her.
She is the sand, now. She’s walked through it so long that she and it are one. They exist, together, each apart from and a part of the exquisite universe.
In the sand she is her finest.
She’s forgotten others.
But then, they forgot her.
That is what matters.