Eleven

Down the road there is a pond, and up the road, there is me, looking for the pond. I have been wandering around this wasteland for days, searching for some inkling of life or something that will tell me where life is. I see the dried shrubs and the littered trash, but I do not see my life. I do not see my home. I think I fell somewhere. I fell somewhere and landed here, in this wasteland.

I am looking for the pond. I have never seen one in my life. My life is gone, so I look for the pond. I think that if I were to have seen it, I would still be, and would have not fallen.

My feet are achy and dry. I do not know how long I have been walking here. One day I was home, and now I have fallen. Now I am fallen. I continue to walk. I walk until my feet feel something cool, something other than the rocks and gravel that are tearing through my skin with every step, something other than the dirt of this wasteland. My feet feel it, then my ankles, then my thighs, then I am submerged. I am falling again. I am sinking. I am floating. I am living. I am no longer in the wasteland. I see my home. I see the clouds. I see the flowers. I see my life. I see the life I had before, the life I was before, before I had fallen, before I was fallen.

I see myself. I see him, and her, and them, and all. I see all. I know all. I heard all. I thought all. I remembered all.

I remember all.

I woke up.

That was all.