The Nomad

He opens his eyes. He's still alive. His throat hurts, it's parched dry. He hasn't had a single drop of water since when he ran away from the last Oasis. Mindlessly, blindly, not caring about the consequences. He'd run. Run from where he had been happy, where he didn't have to worry about dying of thirst or hunger. He'd run as far as his legs would carry him.

And then he fell and that was all he remembered.



He staggers to his feet, he is surprised. has he really managed to run all the way to the next water hole? or is it just a mirage, the heat playing games? He's found water. He lunges for it. His mind refreshed by the mere thought of taking the plunge again.. Half of of his thirst already quenched with the sheer joy of being alive. The other half aggravated and burning harder than ever. He can already feel the coolness running down his throat, the soothing water running down his throat, wiping memories of thirst. Where there's water, he would find food too.

He collects whatever is left of his energy, he doesn't have much, but could probably make it to the pool. He trudges through the sand, his steps getting faster as he closes in on the pool of clear cool liquid. He is ecstatic, standing at the edge of the splendid vision, he is at peace.

But something's wrong, the water does not stay in his cupped hands. Suddenly, there's no water. His hands run futilely over the hot sand; it's parched dry. His cry of anguish is dead before it comes out of his throat. Not again. It was just a mirage.

He'd been happy. He finally didn't have to worry about thirst or hunger anymore. Now he hated the damn place, he hated himself for being fooled by the desert's trickery. If this went on, how long could he live without water? He had to find water. Anywhere, anyhow, at any cost. He started running again, invigorated by a will that comes out of desperation. Mindlessly, blindly, not caring about the consequences. He had run as far as his legs could carry him.

And then he fell and that was all he remembered