Your dry tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, and the glare of the sun reflecting on the sand makes your eyes glaze. How long have you been stranded here in this wasteland? Deep trials rob us of the ability to see anything beyond this current pain, this endless stream of suffering. It seems… Read More Look Up: The Blue Sky in the Wasteland

“On again, trot and walk and trot, jingle-jingle-jingle, squeak-squeak-squeak, smell of hot horse, smell of hot self, blinding glare, headache. And nothing at all different for mile after mile. Tashbaan would never look any further away. The mountains would never look any nearer. You felt this had been going on for always—jingle-jingle-jingle, squeak-squeak-squeak, smell of… Read More He Satisfies the Languishing