Suppose I was a stranger in a strange land. Standing atop a sand dune, watching all that exists bathed in the molten gold that a setting sun spews onto the world. I would walk endlessly on the roasted sand, singeing my painted toes just a little... just enough. I would walk against the harsh wind, feeling it whip my hair around in a tangled mess(like I always preferred it), sting my skin just a little, and whisper sweet nothings to me in a painfully familiar voice. Have it hurt just enough to be comfortable, in exact measures and slow degrees. Because one always needs more of it, after a while. I would look above and see the birds. Not quite the sort you would want to wish upon, but one doesn't expect miracles anyway. So I would murmur those lines I leave scribbled on a piece of paper, in library books for a stranger to see. And I would walk calmly, taking in the beauty of constant motion doomed to be frozen in time. There was a time when they had a word for that, I think. But time decays. Itself and all that is around or in it. Memory is all that is cursed with immortality. Curses, after all, also come in masquerade.
I would then turn and look at my imprints in the sand, and think about things that will never be spoken and probably wouldn't be heard. And I would go on walking on feet that are now numb, except for a violent shudder that runs up the spine every now and then. I would see iridescent streaks of color emanating from a distant ball of fire on the horizon, and laugh exactly the way I did about fairy-tales and the tall tower that no one could get to. I would remember something and bend down to scoop a handful of gold dust, and let it slip out from my fingers like liquid silk. Then, I would start walking again.
And right there, I would have lost another of our little wagers because I would still be going exactly where the wind takes me, like you once said I would. But I would still have a lot to gain, you see. It's taking me a little further from you.
