Having worked for about four months in the hotel, I quit, sold anything I'd still unecessarily possessed and moved to the desert. I found a narrow crevice not too far from one tourist paradise and slowly built myself what's soon taken the form of a wooden shack, made chiefly out of any western waste I could well employ and furnished with Hilton's luxurious, seasonal litter. It was summer and the whole terrain seemed to swell and boil under the undying sun, like a quirky omlette on a frying pan, too weak to escape its fate. Life was scarcely seen outside the shoreline, where cheap flocks of wealthy, sun-roasted Soviet vacationers, who were still falling for the city's rotten honeytrap, were working on their peach-pink to blood-red hues. Only the Jordanian mountains surrounding it all were indifferently happy.

I was eighteen going on nineteen and life demanded more, as often is the case when one is that age. Oftentimes I would smuggle myself into the city zone on a ramshackle bicycle I was presented by the beach-bum goddess, wearing but a rag around my waist and a kaffiyeh on top, hoping to get to the Jewsih soupkitchen on time for lunch. Once there, all you had to do to get a bite was loan a kippah from a box and hand-kiss the doorpost upon entering and exiting the shabby semi-roofed hangar that served as the dining hall for a gang of discomforted mouths. A few months into the heat and stench I wound up yet again in a critical shortage of farthings and went out on a jobhunt, cycling my screeching duo-wheel. Hippies were not required anywhere and free-thinking was still eternally-restricted to the unemployed, but providence has ordered things so that I eventually got hired as a sort of deputy security guard by one spooky desert pack called Delta-Schwarz Security, led by one immense Hungarian ruffian who, for some subversive reason, took a liking for me. I liked him too. There was a grain of child-like frankness and goodwilling in his approach to things in the adult world. His voice had a humble timbre to it and his idiosyncratic, at times simply clumsy extraterrestrial dimensions would quasi dissolve into those of a shrunken Yemenite spinster any time he'd bend his dinosauraus backbone in order to brief the group of fill-ins he'd assembled, before each event of sorts. These 'events', namely anything from private eastern-trash karaokes to guargantan beach banquets, would often go on for a good half a day, with us the loyal substitutes, being dropped off at the place early noon and scraped up early the following morning.

I was always a leader of concentrated pockets of detached resistance to stuff of virutally-seemingly little importance, so it was of little wonder that I came to stand somewhat in the head of that riffy group of undercurrent 'deputies'. It was a good old blend of social and mental cases, timeless in their presence, and comprised of many a stereotype of straightforward formal failures. Toothless, pregnant, penniless, stagnant, vagrant, bored, anchored, fed up, let down, old-but-young, stupid-but-wise, the misplaced rebel, the emotional pedophile, the happy-fat-black, the world leader pretend and a bunch of other downright misfits of spice. As tasty as it gets for a young man of spirit and artistic tendencies.

One day we were dropped off at a severly isolated camel ranch that was soon to turn into the crime scene of one giagntic cross-country student summer party of unrestrained trendiness. The Hungarian hulk has recruited extra toy-sheriffs for the task and had even asked us prior to the event if we knew any more down and out combos who'd like to earn a bruised shekel securing the damn thing. I rang Jorge, the Paraguayan priest, who was doing time at the Solomon Hotel laundry basement, and offered him the job, which he serenely accepted. These were days of jovial trial and error of the younger kind and I definitely erred a lot with the ladies, trying or not. A few weeks before that student raid I'd completed the pre-requisites for my amateur skipper's license, during which I came to chat with this rare flower of a broad, who was taking the course with me. She was a chilled, lady-like child in her early thirties, with a refined set of curves, though somewhat too sturdy from a distance, possibly for the choice of garments, which as is often the case, was much the result of a fragile self esteem. She was working as a marine biologist down at the observatory, which was in fact a stone's cast from the hidden path that led to my shady shed. The kind of woman who was probably always mature in the eyes of her classmates and could never really fit in socially, and though of relatively silent air and somewhat reserved passion, was always in good spirits. As with anyone, it was mainly her eyes I was charmed by. A pair of candid honey-coated almonds. We didn't exchange any contact info and i'd soon gone back my fast-forwarded idea of experiencing life, which brought me all the way from Hollywood references down to that deserted camel ranch in which all hell was about to break loose within a timid couple of hours. Being a bit of a presentable figure (still), I was put up front at the main gate to the resort, and was entrusted with thoroughly checking the crusading incomers for any physical peculiarities. We were given a pre-bite of some rebellious cheese-sandwich followed by a gulp of Palestinian lemonade and were then spread out to our respective positions on the battlefield. It felt like D-Day. Soon it was dusk and the land disappeared fron one's eyesight within twenty five meters unless you stood under one of the old projectors which were haphazardly placed for the joy of the awaited vikings. Being of some expressive silent powers of manipulation, Jorge, the south-american ex-Abbot, was put to guard the gate next to mine, in double-edged hope from the Hungarian's side, that he may melodically supress the shouting of the masses and that I may keep an eye on him, making sure he doesn't fall on his knees and pray for the poor students' vain souls in broken Hebrew.

A few plastic jars of drinking water were laid in critical locations and we were ready for the kick. It was all whirlwind and delirium as soon as the first buses were driving in from the great wide open and into the sandy parking lot under the dusky limelight. Those students were gushing out of 'em like like ants from an anthill. It was then I recalled Carole King's "I Feel The Earth Move Under My Feet", though wasn't a hundred percent sure that's what she was having in mind with that tune... Anyhow, there we were, me and Jorge and a long line of shilly-shally's, diggin' in those people's handbags, wallets, socks and stockings, trying to make sure the insanely prolific chances of someone not leaving this place alive are not encouraged. Taking advatange of the pell mell, I would elaborately let my hands slick in the few more frantic females' pouches, seeing they were up for the 'search' and sending them off gigglin' and wigglin'. There were definitely a lot more guys who seemed to have enjoyed me 'searching' them, as the gay-friend-trend has just kicked in the holy land full-force and was washing the nation like chickenpox. I grinned and thought about 'em few Shekels I were to enrich my inner pocket with at the end of the month, all whilst checking out the poorly-dressed, lavish buttocks of Israeli sunshine and warzone-traumas. Boy, there were some cheeks rubbing there in that dark desert summernight that weren't made for western garments...

The whole ranch was starting to stink of sensual sweat and longing for debauchery, as I reached down for the water, hoping to get my system cooled a bit. It was then, in the midst of that blurry helter-skelter and turmoil of musical vanity that I, rarely losing my perceptive insticnts, caught a gilmpse of a gait I came to know. It was a shy volume of a figure, hands in jeans, that was slowly but surely (in oppose to the rapidly and eccentrically-moving masses) progressing towards the entrance, towards me. It felt as if the whole picture was breathing slower now, following this figure's gentle footsteps in the sand, whose eyes were clearly focused in my direction. I was always easily mystified. Within the next few seconds I knew it was my observatory ladychild. She was faintly smling, which was her custom, as I soon recalled. The swarms of earthly delighters were still coming on strong but all I could see was her getting nearer.

-'Wut-up, cowboy?', she finally uttered when she reached my gate. Jorge was practicing his preaching skills a few meters away and now both our ports were getting lined up with short-tempered, horny cavalry of today's academic creme-de-la-creme and I was trying to keep it cool.

-'Not much, mademoiselle, a working man's dream...What brings lovely you over to this foul neck of the woods?',

-'A voucher from the company, young dreamer... Never say no to free food and a chance to get to know someone interesting in this... Void of emotional paralysis. I normally skip the latter.'

Contrary to what was taking place in my mind's eye, I was inexperienced to the bone and as such, decided to let my beach-boy charm and desert-balsam outline my defence (There was obviously need for defence...). I was so determined to tell the story to myself, I wasn't even there to hear it. I was yet again far overcharged with the storyteller's lust and overcharmed with the kind of youthful joy presented to a young man on the road (The 'Road'), that all I could really respond with were whichever sophisticated insights I recently found fascinating in the books and pieces of art I was digging at the time, giving me a pack of swollen lines of wisdom, of which imitation was all I knew. It was the right road to inspiration and she was willing to take it with me, or more likely, to hold my hand and guide me through it.

By that time the noise both from in- and outside the ranch made us shout at one another and we separated a bit oddly as she went in. I counted to five and turned around to check her ass and of course she had to swing her face toward me too just then. It fueled the akwardness of attraction. I got back to managing the crowd's personal belongings amidst the swearing and war-cries. My old Nokia was blinking in my pocket. It was Vadim, my bum-mate, whom I'd recently invited over to live with me in my now two-room desert love shack. He was an ex-Bolshevick buddhist in his late thirties, strong and not too short. Life in the unholyland has carried him down the boulevard of truth-seeking and he would often, sometimes even wisely, complain about the eastern mentality of vulgar intolerance to all human crafts but the ones involving getting rich through theft and assholeness, making violent children violently and getting fat on the beach, mostly violently. I saw him walking down mainstreet one feverishly hot and dull afternoon, laboriously carrying an abandoned supermarket cartwheel and dressed after the lastest local roofless-vogue and I knew he was up for truth. We would often redundantly wind up on some of fashionably-broken benches down at the first square on the northern beach, where clandestine electricity sockets were available for the perceptive pirate, and dive in that sweet agony of life's enigma and make tea with Vadim's electric fork. We would then observe the flood of tourists and make reasonable remarks of joy and sorrow and self-humor. Most folks I knew (or never knew) from school were either getting fucked behind 'enemy' lines or getting fat on army expense, which was of equal lack of comprehension and bastardness of spirit. Either way it wasn't their choice, they were too unaware to know there was any such thing. The Hebrew word for 'choice' and the word for 'escape' are but a letter apart. I chose to wind up there with Vadim, sometimes, I believe. Now he was calling me up, probably from home (the shack), wanting to know if we shall have a nightout, or possibly loan my bike. As with any shared type of dwelling, paying or not, it's an extremely delicate relaionship that has to be guarded and regarded carefully, and so lately it has become somewhat tiresome for both of us to be around one another for too long and the kind of inxplicable sourness was starting to bloom in our otherwise amitable but barren desert den. Maybe he knew of a new place that had a weekly charity dinner? I was thinking, but my body was elsewhere and my mind was even further into the void of seeking. I ignored the call and hopped back into the slashing reality of work and the power it supresses.

By now it was already an equal descent of folk both around the entrances and exits and relentless cheapness of artificial body parts of extreme sizes were seen around the ranch. To the my left side I could see truckloads of ice cream being charged at the masses in all colors and forms. Being a sugar-loving boy, I downed at least three when our turn came. It was a flow of avid sensuality. The night was Egyptian dark and the lights were sharp and penetrating, a lustrous film-noir through fleshy tears of sweat. The hunger was rising in me, parallel to the unreputable inner disatisfaction which, to my surprise, was a hell lot to do with being human. I was beginning to steal more frequent snapshots of the clock, which is always a sign you're not exactly exulted where you find yourself that given moment. I was then still in possession of one divers' wristwatch that was given to me by Donald J. Phyxx, an earthly dude of good spirits, who was living day-to-day in one of the other small crevices that split from the main track that led, amongst others, to my cozy cabin. Donnie was the child of one Prussian love-monk who drifted through the Sahara and wound up in Sinai of the late 60's and of one strict female jehova witness of high-class Jewsih-American roots. Story went that his father, at the time still a devoted flowerpower-knave, left his pot-stacked shack in Sharem-El-Sheik and went up the hills of northern Sinai one dawn in august '71 accompannied by an unknown lass of Bedouin descent and found Jesus there. A good fellow from the Bahamas by the name of Gonzalo told me about that moment out there in time, when he was lying limbs spread on the hot sand and was fingering a big hairy Finnish broad as he suddenly got a glimpse of Father Phoxx descending from the closest hill, shouting: 'I found him! Wake up, Gonzalo, I found him! We're saved, we're saved!'. Gonzalo recalled that Father Phoxx then started preaching to the group of mixed Europeans on the beach and encountered their seasoned, flabbergasted and even intellectual reproach.

'I immediately thought he'd had that one pipe too much', he told me, 'but now look at him and look at me... I mean, the man's got everything and I ain't got shite! Maybe Jesus wasn't such a bad find after all!'.

I got emotional as Gonzalo was telling me the story. I could literally see it all through his eyes then, as we were sitting in the pesudo-lobby of that creepy hostel that served as his home, as well as mine every fortnight or so, when I was doing a night shift for the company. Him and Father Phoxx, both wound up in Eilat after having spent those few accidentally-euphoric years in the otherwise rushing and gushing southern corner of the Canaanite empire: one had established a neo-theo church, married a JAP and got enormous funds and stipendia with which he'd led a life of western comfort and luxus, the other - a working class hero, barely made it through memory lane. Life was just as rough in the middle eastern fields, as they'd always been, it seems. Dates, salt and vengeance, with the frequent contribution of external elitistic plunderes. Anyhow, Donnie, Phoxx Jr., was a rare, good-willing soul of the old ways who was nearing his mid twenties, which is a big thing in any generation, especially when time move fast, as it tended to back then. He was raised upon 'em pseudo-Christian values personally-diverted by Phoxx Senior and his insidious and industrious WASPy wife, but grew apart from them in the sense that he simply could not help the seeking that was boiling inside of him. He maintained a close relationship with the family and got what he needed from them, giving them back just as equally, but devoting himself, much to the reluctancy of the couple, to self-exploration outside the church. Whether that manifested itself in leafing through Lao-Tse's scribbling or in jamming to the sounds of Seattle's last wave of a dying crave around the campfire, it was always a profoundly benevolent meeting we'd have, myself and Donnie. He was also a great source of inspiration for my craftsmanship-interest, which was obviously at a certain peak as I was constantly looking for ways and methods to facilitate and expand on my shack. As with any proper feat of apprehending, it was a hands-on experience, involving both attitude and time. Donnie showed me how to mix a good cement so it doesn't fall to pieces nor melt under the boiling beams that shone in through the thin air already around quarter to six in the morning. After a few shots at it I felt I was ready to burn my hands and made myself a stove that served as the focal point of the otherwise-provisory kitchen. It was the first niche you'd see when you entered the little crevice and I was very proud of it, to my surprise. It was quite a miraculous thing, you see, for a being that was literally raised on the knees of a computer in the age of artificial intelligence, to go about creating things this way in the immediate world of substance. It gives one a rather enlightening shot of primal satisfaction, which is a great deal of joy for a nineteen-year-old seeker. These were also times of great interest, as some of us would like to believe, in the classy world of adult-affairs, as changes in goverment and some such codswallop of meagre impact were taking place out there, inside the box. All I could think of back then was the time-old Chinese proverb that went something like 'if you wish to wish me the foulest of wishes, then wish me to be born in interesting times'. It was Vadim who'd first handed me Hesse's 'Siddhartha', saying 'Keep in mind Tommy: if in a city, a wise man walks the desert'. That book resonated so deeply with whatever it was I was after. It was simply one of those moments when all hish-hush quieted down and meaningfulness was jovially streaming towards the light of origin, giving one the most delicate swing of sweet, rejuvenating resolution only 'the way' can give. I could swear I'd totally forgotten the two universal facts of my time: it was no longer the age of music-by-instruments and people are tiny-cocked, jealous bastards who'd contrieve any scheme in the world to hinder your progress. The latter may be also claimed by other times, though. One way or another - it was love. The kind of love we rarely cherish while it is alive and happening, though it is always omnipresent. The suffocating tenderness that sneaks in on us on a dull midday, reminding us that only through honesty of heart may we come to terms with the mortal condition that plagues the soul. One indulges wholly in the act of experiencing, led by the anxious hope of encountering a lasting fulfillment, but all mind is met with are temporary states of detachment, ever-lacking true serenity.

Speaking of which, it was time for my break. The clock had just struck midnight and the young devils were still carousing high in the Spitz of the Israeli triangle. 'Ach-la avoda, Tommy-boy', the Hungarian hulk came to back for me, grinning, handing me another dying creamcheese-sandwich from Suzie's Family Catering and a can of Hebrew soda-pop, and flicking a high-five that engulfed my hand like Hannibal's elephants did the stupefied Republic, and which sent a pain-signal that went all the way to my toenails. Slowly recovering, I went aside to try and use the next twenty eight minutes to re-establish a semi-concrete conception of myself, so as to last through those few hours that were left for this chronic chaos. I took a couple of dozen steps away from the freaky projectors and deragatory limelights and sat my slim butt on a rock in the soothing darkness. I took a rigid bite from the floppy waist of that cum-filled pitah and suddenly found myself thinking of the camels in the ranch. It was after all, a 'camel-resort' and these poor animals were providing the owners, somewhat knowingly I figured, with some respectable sums, judging by the relentless advertisement around town. Was that the way to treat 'em unlucky bastards? Just imagine how terribly alarmed and freaked-out those otherwise silent and relatively harmless creatures must be now, with all this violent factory-noises hollering from the stacks of gigantic speakers spread around this tract of gold rocks and scarce verdure. As many a desert night, it was starry and magnificent on its own. There must have been about a zoot zillion of 'em tiny zany lights up there, but they would all vanish within some yards from the party zone. Remarkably enough, it was even windier out there, on my adopted rock, as a cool breeze came caressing my forehead and brought the hard-earned fragrance from my armpits onto my nostrills. It smelled sexier than usual and I sniffed myself for about four minutes straight. I was never fond of using any deordorant or the likes and only did that on nightouts from about eleven to thirteen years of age, 'cause it was cool and one thought to feel manly. I quickly recovered from that social-pressure and waste of pocket-money and was thereafter often complimented by the other sex for my severely-sweetened aroma of sour-manliness, or what have you. Yet this night was different: we were told how long it was bound to last and were obliged to dress-up for the show in a way which contrasted both the occation and the weather. I ended up borrowing Botolf's spray-deo and shot a few shots at them curly jungles that grew wild under my arms. 'They pay ya some dough, honey, and ya say they treatcha quite orightte, might as well give em what they want this time, so they fix ya up with more work. Trust me, it ain't easy getting around here', he said as he reached for the side-pocket of his roadworn rucksack and took out a can of a common brand and threw it over to me. It took place the night before the show. We were having a good hang at Gary's Cozy Corner To Be, down in the old tourist-center that hasn't had a single cobblestone replaced in it since '76, and which served mainly as the home of several dodgy hooker-hostels and one titties-n-beer club with vile truck-driving Moroccans trying to hit on shapeless Thai masseurs. Botolf was a Norwegian daredevil and rude and ruthless a-la-Bukowski, who drifted through life in sin and ended up in the unpromising land, rugged and drugged. Clearly enough, he was of good and gentle spirit that, much like his once-snowhite skin, had to develop a series of shells solely dedicated to protecting the shining pearl from a world of maniac pearldivers. As was the down-n-out custom, he would normally waste his daily portion of Shekels down at Gary's, as Johnny Cash or Dire Straits were playing from Gary's old cassette collection. Yep, he was just as legendary a character as one could grasp. I loved him dearly for a while, but then it's gotten too much, as love does. I'll never forget the day I stumbled across him though. I had just moved into town, eighteen, aimless, careless, classless, melancholic and hopfeul, and was looking for an occupation. Kicks that is. I got down to the first beach on the southern shoreline one beige afternoon on a workday, when folks were either running errands, suffering in their offices or elsewhere, executing plans or planing executions or both, and found it heavenly empty. I stepped over the wooden deck, over the dreamy beach-bar, where a young flower was selling overpriced frappuicinos, and reached the DJ spot, where a well-built beach-midget had welcomely asked for my knowledge of that early 00's apparatus. After telling himself that I was of no immediate threat (hippies are harmless, I warn you!) and after I threw in the air some names from the sixties, he'd shown me the way behind the bar. I couldn't believe how things rolled my way (never take anything for granted, dear reader). There were maybe a dozen people on the terrace, half of whom were busying themselves in the water. I think I let 'In The Court of The Crimson King' play (which bought the midget, who mumbled something about recalling the track from his time at the Kibbutz) but soon thereafter, when the waves were plashing harder on the sandy beach, I turned to some eighties stuff, don't really know why. Probably as it was the only stuff I had on my Korean mini-MP3 at that moment in time. Easily mystified, yet again. Anyways, there comes The Cult, when suddenly I'm approached by this half naked, dark-blonde, sun-burnt chum of a slick physique, who takes off his 1994 lifeguard-sunglasses just half-way up and says, behind blue eyes: 'Whoa, not many people know The Cult in these godforsaken spheres. What's yer name, boy?' At that very moment I knew I'd found what I was looking for, in the sense that I got down south to find myself in a certain type of characters. A type which, prior to that, had only existed in my head, as part of my chivalric jargon of popular references from epochs which were not being popular anymore. Botolf and I got out later that night. I couldn't get enough of his dreamy representation of whichever surrealistic Don Quijote it was that I adored and wanted to be. He was living in one of the less friendly parts of the immediate wilderness, as close to town as possible, in one of those d.i.y. tents you get in a gas station for twenty bucks. At that time I was still staying at the old 'Bell Hotel', a perfectly-located motel from the 60's, that was cheaply converted into a hotel-workers' lodge. That meant I had running water and such futuristic paraphernalia, and Botolf decided that very night that I was the one worthy enough to help him get his head shaved. His thin, shoulder-length Nordic hair fell on the bathroom floor, in my shared single-room-with-a-view, that warm autumn night. We took a round on the empty beach and stopped and listened to the softly plashing wavelets, originating in the fullness of the insatiable sea and culminating at our very feet. We talked through the night, going back and forth le promenade and changing themes as we strode. I was conciously streaming with his lines as they echoed in mine, as harmonious as a new-born idea in an idealist's mind. I can still hear the sound of our voices from that night. By the time we took leave of one another the sun had already warmed up the superficial levels of sand on the northern beach. The Jordanian mountains of forever were majestically illuminated in the eyes of the young beholder, as he was making his way back to his hotelbed. I just had to leave, I guess. To leave was to live and vice versa.

Back in the moment, everything was finally starting to tumble down and the first chunks of inebriated students were seen in the ports of the ranch on their way out, some barely conscious, but nevertheless loud. Our gang of de-hydrated bodyguards was alert again, but this time in a much more relaxed way, knowing home was near. There was no need of applying surrealistic methods to refine the intoxication of that moment when swarms of cuddled, limping entities were rolling out through our gates, alcohollicaly immersed. Some would slap my young buttocks as the swimmed across, seemingly from all directions. As the crowd was getting thinner I began to dream again (as if I'd sometimes stopped) and in that reality I portrayed I could no longer recognize the thinker. I turned my gaze to Jorge, who then turned his gaze to the mountains surrounding us, who seemed to be chanting the eternal answer. I automatically did the same and let my gaze lay upon them for what seemed to be a decade's interval, as it'd all gotten quieter and I could suddenly feel another energi field around me. Jorge was gesturing with his thick eyebrows and there she stood, my observatory-mermaid.

-Want to show me the way to the shack?, she said, softly-smiling as always.

As we were packing up our several jingling leftovers, the ageless middle-aged black woman of the gang was giggling motherly from the side at the sight of us casual lovebirds, as was in her favorable nature to do. The Hungarian hulk lent me a creditory tap on the shoulder, whispering 'great job!' and leaving me three inches shorter on one side. All understood I was not gettin in the van with them as Jorge put on another startling harangue to greet the waking dawn, which I perceived to be more of a distractive means to let us sneak out of there smoothly. I appreciated that as I saw him blinking. A couple of intervallic lapses of time and we had found ourselves in the narrow crevice that led to the shack. There was just enough light to maneouver and just enough darkness for romance to glow. The month of september was dawning in the desertly horizon with just a fraction of cool breeze as she unveiled my youthful particles, which for their part weren't particularly hidden. Under the still starry morning, she spread herself on the kingly matress which I'd laboriously borrowed from Hilton's innermost wastelands and invited my body to take a trip in her soul. The smell of our delicately savage mutuality, ingrained in the fragrance of a new-born day seemed to infatuate a great many of mother nature's desert-dwelling crawlers, which we soon discovered on the sheets, at our feet and amongst our scattered garments. With each entrance to her temple, with each oozing of the source of life, she, like mother nature, was giving me the softest and clearest of clues for the deciphering of the dream of self which I, like most, was arrogantly caged in. I wasn't yet ready to embrace that, not fully in any case. Yet the acknowledgement of that moment as the end of an unconsciously egoic era is present in me now as it was then, as our essence resolved within her. All of a sudden, as if also by her powers, gentle drops of rain started kissing our barren camp. I was feeling creatively bad, I was feeling desperately not enough as I was looking at the sun through the 'I' of it all, looking for more. She laughed knowingly from behind me and pulled out a bottle of coke from her backpack. It was still remarkably chill as she served it to me.

-Here, dreamer, stole it from the ranch.

-There must be more than that to life -I said, letting the sun stare at my face as I was wetting my throat, never aware of the joy.

-More than what? -She responded after a short while, as if to herself.

-More than this, more than everything!

I wasn't looking at her, but I'm sure she was smiling as she nonchalantly uttered:

-You're drinking a cool coke whilst staring at the sun, is it really that bad?

I really can't remember with which words it all ended, but that is of little importance. Those blessed raindrops which the goddess of modes and moods has brought upon us made it very clear that this was a single, and with that also eternal, manifestation in our brief cross-road. As was expected from my number of years on the planet, I did make a few abrupt attempts to meet with her in person as well as many a time in my head, before ever fully realizing it was never her I was longing for. It was never a person. It was never a thing. It was seeking itself which was my longing and therefore insatiable. I escorted her through that mile and a half that separated between the nearest road to civilisation and my isle of sand and we didn't say much, if at all. As I was nearing the shack my torn shirt was already sogged with tears, though the sun was shining strong enough to dry them away. I looked around me, still sobbing, observed with watery vision all those forms I've collected and brought about in this corner of the physical world, stared at this scene of cowradly-adventuresome, self-seeking late-teen idealist and there it was: a crackle, a reflection, a dance. 'Is it really that bad?', I smiled as I remembered her smile. I took some time of unkown length to pack up and let the picture reflect in my being. I never came back and I never saw her again. The Jordanian mountains of forever were majestically illuminated in the eyes of the young beholder, as he was taking his first step into the now.

Stockholm, July, 2018.