In Deserts Far

So far I’m comfortable. We use complete words – where would the communication be otherwise? Those hieroglyphs the youngsters use would mean more to people popping by from Ancient Egypt than they do to me. Perhaps they’re in touch with people across time as well as space. Perhaps you are too. You’ve never told me, but then I’ve never asked.

If we went to the pyramids now, you and me – just imagine that, travelling again – what would we find in the dry dark interiors? Would they be warm or blissfully cool? (I know what it’s like in the desert, the juxtaposition of heat and cold.) Would we draw closer to one another or shrink apart, remembering all the warnings that have been programmed into our brains? These times make us want to do both and leave us (too often) curtailed by indecision, fingers hovering over keyboards, reluctant to make the first tap. For fear.

I’d go back to paper if I could, but I have no ink. If I had a chisel – and the strength in my wrists – I could carve my message in rock, though I have seen the power of the wind in the desert. Eroding everything written, smoothing everything down. Only inside are we safe. Deep inside. Write on me there.