This country

I shoved my hands into my pockets, seeking refuge from the grit and grime of the world around me. No place had ever seemed more dismal, I was sure. Bleak, gray skies and endless quantaties of the sandy, rocky dirt covering everything. No trees grew here, only farmers and their increasingly small crops. What was the big deal? I asked myself. I had lived here for my whole life- tending to the crops, struggling to make do- it was my life. It was my father’s life and it will be my son’s. I started walking across the land towards the horizon, though I knew that however far I walked, the land would stay the same. I walked past small, scraggy bushes and an old shoe, it’s heel busted and covered in dirt. I picked it up, dusted it off, and turned around back to home. In this country, you don’t walk past anything.

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