A Farm in my Dreams

I stood in a town where the roads were sand and the buildings were rock. The heat would have been unbearable had I not been acclimating over the last week. My feet were dirty in my sandals, and my whole body was covered in a layer of dust. In my unclean state, I was finally clean, for all things shared the unclean state. Should a rich man ride by, with clean skin glistening fairly in the sun, I would see him as unclean for he was the one fighting against the natural order. I was a little thirsty, and very hungry as the lunch hour approached, and though the preparation of lunch would scare most pampered americans, it would rank among the most grateful and satisfying meals I had ever consumed. Yes, after the days of travel and the nights of sleeping on concrete without sleeping bag or pillow, I was home where I stood. "I wish I had my skateboard," was my only complaint. I told my mother that I would return, and even though I did return a few years later, that was not the return I spoke of. Someday I would return home, and I would make a bed for myself, and I would make a table for myself. Someday I would return home to stay home, and someday I will return home. I will create a farm to sustain myself, and a home to protect me. I will create rooms for my children, and space for my wife, should children and a wife become a reality for my life. The windows I pictured in my architecture class would no longer be a dream. Yes, this dream that I dream will be a life that I awaken unto. I have seen the place where my life shall end, and I now take steps every day toward that end.