This is the third of seven articles in the collection
Letters to Yara
my personal take on the hero’s journey.
To you,
Forever from me to you,
The days grow darker, the night grows longer and our blistered feet somehow carry us forward still. It appears the land of beauty, we have long left behind, for this barren wasteland is one I know only from my nightmares. Vultures cast down their hallowing screams, patiently biding their time until exhaustion may take us.
Ready to tear our tormented bodies apart.
Stygian clouds move swiftly across the sky and howling winds follow us closely. So close, we never fully embrace thoughts of finally having escaped the relentless whip of the sandstorms.
The horizon is tainted with a jagged fence of skeleton trees. Rising tall but standing fragile. Black, solemn and seized by fire. Their lifeless silhouettes a reflection of this burned, deserted landscape.
Here deviance rules, and we bow under its scepter of malice. A wailing land of ash and dust, drenched in sorrow, yet absent of the tears of rain. A land where neither smile nor laughter are welcome.
We rotate taking leads as we navigate the canyons and crevices, passing the plains of cracked and scorched earth.
All the while cursing its maker, the hellish creator who trapped us in his life-sized etch.
The courage of our brotherhood wears paper-thin, and during the night we wake. Restless. Uninterrupted sleep is now a luxury belonging to the past. If at all touched by slumber, nightly terrors infiltrate our world of dreams. The screams of desperation of my companions echo along the plains. Keeping sleep at bay and leaving us incapable of recovery.
The fire in our heart is burning out.
The spark in our eyes fading.
We’re falling victim to the landscape, the cruel puppeteer continuously taunting us. Depriving us of food and water.
Abstaining from talk, we try to spare our bone-dry and inflamed throats.The knowledge we must ration inhibits us from indulgence. The short-term relief after a sip of water causing worry to grow, for we know the sources are scarce.
Warily I eye my comrades, witnessing their hollow cheeks and sunken eyes.
We march in silence.
Our voices broken.
It has started to feel as if my nerves are being picked apart, each ending ablaze with fire. My shoulders locked, my spine a glowing stake around which every fiber of my muscles contracts, tightening the knots. There is a tension building inside of me and I cannot help myself to think something is looming in the darkness.
As if we’re edging along a chasm, peering into the black depths of the abyss.
Merely a step away from being swallowed by the void.
I prophet the point of no return from these shadow-lands.
For I fear I will either collapse beneath the weight on my shoulders, or crumble trying to carry this burden uphill.
Rendered incapable of completing the task laid upon us.
How can one be condemned to the faith of both Atlas and Sisyphus?
If only I could lay my hands on your skin, caress the soft features of your angelic face.
I would ask you my dear;
Where to look for strength to carry on?
Where to look for hope in despair?
Where to look for light in the darkness?
Yours still,
Me
Black Lotus Vector courtesy of Thijs Franken
Click here
for the preceding article in
Letters to Yara
