Post by nitemarez on Oct 31, 2012 6:39:24 GMT -7
I'm going to be posting this in small chunks. My editing is rather abysmal, so if you catch any mistakes I would be grateful if you would PM me any mistakes you find. Enjoy!
The mid afternoon heat beat down on my head, relentless in its assault on my body. My tongue slipped over my cracked lips for the millionth time that day. The rolling dunes of sands never ceased to end, but still I pressed on. My food ran out two days ago, my water the day after. To stop now would be certain death, so I continued forward in the - I hesitate to use the word – hope of finding some kind of refuge.
I hate that word: hope. How could such an optimistic word be so pessimistic at the same time? The optimistic person hopes for good things to happen, but when all you have is hope, you’re essentially screwed. You’re betting everything on a chance that it might work out, that it might not screw up. You are giving up and saying that there is nothing in your power that can change what is about to happen. Hope is something that the lazy rely on. They rely on other people, or other things, to accomplish what they themselves will not or cannot do. I hate hope.
If I were the hoping type of person, I would be lying down and waiting for someone to find me. If I were the hoping type of person, I would be hanging from the gallows in Gladwyn. No, there is only one person you can rely on, and that is yourself. In this world, reliability is what matters. If you don’t have a reliable source of food, water, and shelter, you’re just a carcase for the carrion.
And so I trudged on, one step at a time. Hope would not save me; I had to be the one to save myself. Each step was a struggle. My legs wanted to give out and let me die; the rest of my body wanted the same. It was by sheer force of will that I kept myself moving forward. Forever forward. A voice in the back of my head told me that it was futile, that no salvation would come, that I should lie down and accept my death. I knew it was right, but at this point giving up was not an option. Death is something that is easy to get over; since when have you heard someone complain about being dead? Pride, well that was a different. I had done too much for it; it would save me, its greatest, most devoted, servant.
This desert would not take me.
The mid afternoon heat beat down on my head, relentless in its assault on my body. My tongue slipped over my cracked lips for the millionth time that day. The rolling dunes of sands never ceased to end, but still I pressed on. My food ran out two days ago, my water the day after. To stop now would be certain death, so I continued forward in the - I hesitate to use the word – hope of finding some kind of refuge.
I hate that word: hope. How could such an optimistic word be so pessimistic at the same time? The optimistic person hopes for good things to happen, but when all you have is hope, you’re essentially screwed. You’re betting everything on a chance that it might work out, that it might not screw up. You are giving up and saying that there is nothing in your power that can change what is about to happen. Hope is something that the lazy rely on. They rely on other people, or other things, to accomplish what they themselves will not or cannot do. I hate hope.
If I were the hoping type of person, I would be lying down and waiting for someone to find me. If I were the hoping type of person, I would be hanging from the gallows in Gladwyn. No, there is only one person you can rely on, and that is yourself. In this world, reliability is what matters. If you don’t have a reliable source of food, water, and shelter, you’re just a carcase for the carrion.
And so I trudged on, one step at a time. Hope would not save me; I had to be the one to save myself. Each step was a struggle. My legs wanted to give out and let me die; the rest of my body wanted the same. It was by sheer force of will that I kept myself moving forward. Forever forward. A voice in the back of my head told me that it was futile, that no salvation would come, that I should lie down and accept my death. I knew it was right, but at this point giving up was not an option. Death is something that is easy to get over; since when have you heard someone complain about being dead? Pride, well that was a different. I had done too much for it; it would save me, its greatest, most devoted, servant.
This desert would not take me.