camp: Back of Beyond, the Known Universe, Utah
Dear
person ten thousand years from now,
Today
it rained in the morning. The rocks around me are red-orange, made of sand
stuck together, forming ridges and shelves as far as I can see. Here, I walk on
my feet and sometimes my hands. The rain adds uncertainty to the land, so I
slide twenty feet down bare rock faces, not able to control my speed, barely
able to change direction. I almost fall into puddles of orange water pooled in
the rock. I walk up sandstone ledges arranged like a staircase, each step a
different width, half of them breaking off as soon as I put my weight on them.
I let the shape of the rock guide me, abandoning the concept of efficiency. I
want to move north, but the rock that way is too steep, and I risk falling,
sliding down into a canyon three hundred feet deep. Instead, I go west, finding
level ground, rocks that curve upward gradually, gentle enough to walk on.
I
wonder if you still go outside, if you see the sky with clouds and with sun. I
wonder if it still rains in the desert. I wonder if these canyons, sheer rock
faces plunging down hundreds of feet, are still here or anywhere. I wonder if
they’ve all been filled with trash or something radioactive, something with a
half-life greater than the time between my death and your birth.
I
hope you know what it is to be wet, to be cold, to feel so hot there’s sweat
dripping off of you back and you can barely stand to smell yourself. I hope
you’ve been hurt, feared for your life, known that one misstep might cause you
to fall into an abyss, hopelessly trying to fly on your way down. I hope you’ve
climbed on top of something and felt free to scream knowing no one can hear
you.
I
hope you’ve been alive, and been human.
love,
Rachel
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