I was born and raised in this desert. I certainly was not an especially unhappy child, but I don't believe I ever lay back and looked at the clouds rolling by. I don't believe I ever looked at a tree and saw anything but a tree. I was never given to any great deal of daydreaming. I don't believe I was a particularly innocent child, if I understand innocence correctly today. When I started to grow out of childhood I looked around and was disillusioned with the life I'd be content with, I saw the desert not just for what it was, but for what it implied. Day followed upon day that I stumbled through this desert of a town on my routine life, always walking on autopilot towards vague destinations. The landscape was harsh and cruel, a wasteland, daubed like paint, but instead with meaningless stone mounds. I looked around at the other children who were growing up, and I despised them. Each one was diagnosed with some supposedly earth-shattering disease (or "condition," as it was euphemistically called) and was never under any circumstances to be allowed to forget it. Those who were not officially diagnosed had diagnosed themselves. I had diagnosed myself with depression, but we were unable to write prescriptions for ourselves. It's a pity, maybe some day. Meanwhile some kids got their "medicine" through less legitimate means. Each child was too full of drugs to follow a train of thought, or even to climb a bookshelf, let alone profit by it. And each physician looked gallantly on with their nobly-made profit, with an implied immunity to "conditions," but in reality too sick to heal thyself, as the proverb goes.
I grew older, and the children around me grew older. They had been prevailed upon to pick up and read their books, but they skipped over every word. Cliff notes were very much in vogue. We were taught to comprehend, but we were never encouraged to dig. We went to lecture halls, and when I walked out and looked around, I saw that no sooner had my peers emerged back into the desert than they had forgotten what it was they had heard. I spent my days avoiding eye-contact. I grew foreign to physical affection. I ran away in my thoughts from their awkwardly staring, uncouth eyes. But when the morning came, I looked into the mirror, and I saw the truth.
And only now am I faced with what I've done. The lies, the contented shallowness. What have I become? I was led blindly down this road; I'd never begun it, I swear. But now there's nowhere else to run. Oh, God, what have I become? I could try to lose myself in my books, or in music, but the reflection follows me through every medium, those cold blank eyes still staring back at me. This desert is a town I can't run from.
No matter what the season, the flower is always falling and the grass withering away. The dark of night and the afternoon clouds mesh together and fade into a constant gray. The teachers tell us to put our hearts on display. My worthless heart is always up there somewhere, a perfect specimen, as it if means something, but can't they see that it's crumbling like clay? I'm at the end of my rope. As a last resort I'm running down all avenues of faith, searching and begging for a chance to escape that does not end in death.
And every morning now I'm faced with what I've done. What have I become?
What have I become?
Cold, blank eyes still staring back at me. What have I become?
This Desert is a Town I can't run from.
Day by day I am slowly falling into a permanent sleep...
I feel a touch on my shoulder and look around, confusedly. It's a girl. A pretty girl. A pretty girl who I'd assumed had always looked through me like everybody else. I avoid eye-contact from force of habit. I avoid physical contact from force of habit. But she is there, and she is speaking. Can I believe that she is speaking to me? Since the first touch of her skin I've opened my eyes and the sun has been warm and vibrant instead of harsh and blinding. Suddenly life is strangely bright. When I glance awkwardly into her eyes I don't see the blank, staring, uncouth eyes I remember from the desert, or from the mirror. Those large blue eyes have a simple and curious look.
When she's gone some distance off I find the courage to finally level my own cold eyes at her. She's looking up at something. There's a boy with her, and he's pretending to look up. But now I look around for the very first time since I'd begun to fall asleep. There are other people whose eyes had been cold and blank and uncouth like mine, but now they are also looking up. Their eyes are transformed as if they were renewed by the process. It's as if they were all of them flying kites. But their brows are wrinkled and their eyes are strained. They must be searching. Searching for what?
Through the clouds, above the skies, and the sun finally comes out in full blast and they squint their eyes, but don't turn away.
My dear, where have I been all this time? My dear, my hands are trembling, legs are weak, my knees are bending! Before I can even process the thought I see it, I know that this town, it came from me. The hot desert wind, all the while it was only my own labored breathing! And you saved me from my wretched sleep with your liquid eyes and your careless touch!
And as for this desert town, I was wrong to search for an escape that does not end in death. I must let this desert inside of me die. Let it die, Lord, so that I may come to life.