The Wanderer

A sandstorm. A man is walking through the sandstorm. When he caught sight of the sandstorm on his road through the desert, he headed straight for it, like a rowboat sailing the perfect storm. The whirlwind deposits sand in his eyebrows and beats against his cracked and battered lips, looking for the way in. He's been through so many of these that his scalp looks like it has eroded with the direction of the wind. His sandals bury themselves in the dunes with each step, and the thorns of the last dry tree have ripped the cloth on his trousers, pulling the skin on his shin along with them as they dragged across the surface of fabric and flesh.

The man seeks no city of gold lost in the scorching sun. He seeks no way out of this eternal desert. He seeks no solitude or reflection or spiritual enlightenment. He draws no benefit from carving a fleeting road through the sandstorm. He is a sandstorm seeker. He lives to survive the desert tempest. He comes out of each one barely breathing, collapsed, pockmarked by the flying debris. But alive, and inside he's unscathed. He lives for the thrill of survival. If someday he decides to leave, the desert around him will disappear and he'll trade in the burning sand for the peace of the garden. But until then, every time the cloud understands it cannot break him and moves on to seek other victims, the cracked lips on his weathered face will show a smile both tired and triumphant. The stretching flesh will redden his lips again and he will feel the blood seeping up and trickling down his chin. But he will barely feel it. There is pain in smiling through the cracks and despite them. But to him, mustering a crimson smile despite the pain is worth more than the lie of an eternal, painless grin.