Sand

I stand in a sun scoured desert.  All around me is unending sand, filled with yellow, brown and gold.  Nothing lives, yet there is life.  Life hidden, and ghosts flowing on the parched air.  Like the sun seeing all looking down at me, I see across leagues or dune and flat.  I feel so small, for both the land and sky seem to big, and I am both alone and one with the land.  I stretch my arm out and feel the weight of centuries these sands have blown across, of winds that have come and gone.  I am at peace, my heart is calm deep in my chest and deep in the earth.  I feel as if I had never been born but always have just been.  Breathe, and the winds breathe with me.  Stand, and the hills stand for hundreds of years more.

Loss

We are afraid of endings, and we are afraid of loss.  When something ends, do we have any more sight of what we once observed?  A song which sounds sweet years by feels as though it may disappear forever if we do not have some means to capture it, to hold it and never let go.

I download a television show and watch it, exulting in the joy it brings from nostalgic memory and discovery lived anew.  Once I am done, I do not delete it, I want to keep it. I never want to have it lost, whether it is ever played again, I keep the knowledge that it is something I possess and cannot be taken away from me.  Over time, how much can I keep, and does the hoarding ever stop?

Does it even need to stop, while we march forward with so much baggage and an ever growing capacity.  What happens when this capacity fails, and we fall into the back bit of loss and ending.  Time heals all wounds, but how long will it take to heal the opened wounds of lost loved thing?