I sat there that evening, thinking about what it is that one is supposed to think about in those moments.
The slowly dying sun inhaled the ancient power of the sandstone beneath my bare feet, and exhaled it's deep redness on the thirsty clouds that skimmed the hill tops with long fingers, checking for dust.
Golden land flowed and creased for miles around - the bottom of the wedding dress for that lone, dead Acacia tree: an ancient spinster, bony fingers shielding her eyes from the sun, still searching for that liquid which is life - love.

Surely I am not meant to see this beauty? We are not given that which we cannot use or understand. But how, how can I appreciate this moment? Beautiful, Stunning, Marvelous - it is none of these words. Cowardly I turn my attention to the dry skin on my hands and make patterns in the red dust with my feet. A persuasive breeze lifts my chin, forcing my face to be bathed in ochre light, making me stare at the golden terrain. It is the time when the life of the day retires to sleep and the life of the night is yet to awake. This is the time when one thinks wonderful thoughts, inspired by startling sights. I know that I should understand what I see, but I wonder: is it possible for man to appreciate this, surely the one able to absorb the spirit of Africa into his blood would instantly depart from the boundaries of his mortal flesh to become part of the very essence which he has just comprehended?
I do not know the answers to my questions, after all, I am but a person sitting on the African floor, thinking about what it is that one is supposed to think about in times like these.

A tear…small and perfect, ran with a confident stride down the crease between her nose and cheek. It kissed the top of her sweet, young lip goodbye and jumped from the precipice - choosing to shatter its small world on the bed of sand below rather than to stay near to its creator - and its source of pain.
It was a single grain of sand that punctured the tear, shattering its existence. It absorbed the salt and sorrow that had sprung from human flesh - it was quite different to the salt of the sea - more emotion…yet…less spirit. With the sick taste of a champion heart that was never allowed to win, the grain of sand moved - as if trying to get away - ever so slightly towards the sea.
A God-sent wave picked up the suffering grain and cradled it as night's blanket came down to warm the shore.
Life-times of pain and stinging memories haunted the sand, that tried to rock itself to sleep on the ocean bed. How in a world made up of grains, could one feel so alone? Was he the only one who truly cared? Work without pay, suffering without reward - pale with fatigue, he could fight no more. It was time to surrender. And at that very moment, the black of night darkened and he was separated from the world he once thought he didn't belong - but what did he care? - Only to sleep.
When the nurturing arms of the sea were tipped in crimson light, the life of the ocean awoke. As did our grain, though in a new abode. The thorn-paved path that he had once walked was now a cushioned bed. The rough world that had seemed to spite him had delivered him, at the completion of his task, into a smaller world of warmth and serenity. And on his aged body, where scars had made their place, now nothing, but a pearly cloak.

You know, for a long time I have been trying to figure out what to do with my life – career wise – and last night I figured it out.
I think that I should become a judge, and before anyone can utter the words “I love you”, they will have to be examined by me. Some guys drive me mad, the minute they are tired of polite flirting they whisper it: “I love you” – obvious translation = “How about a quick shag?” A friend of mine has recently had her heart hypnotized by those words and all I can do is sit on the side-line and watch her throw her life into a chapter of her favorite love novel – which might I add, is fictional.
Yes, I should be this judge, I will sit on a big rock near the ocean and eat fruit and ice-cream while looking into the eyes of men to see if their lips are eligible to pass those sacred words. I shan’t be too strict though, for I believe that true love is often not found, and in most cases many people are happy to settle for the next best thing, which is pretty darn good in itself and deserves the three-worded license.
But the few people who don’t give up until they have found true, true love are the people who I will joyously give the use of the words to. But I doubt that for all the years that I shall spend sitting on my rock that one of those lucky people will approach me looking for my blessing. For they will know with all the certainty in the world that they have found it. No more will they search the starry night sky or the horizon of the sea looking for the one whose mere touch makes their body scream in ecstasy. The one whose every breath and movement is seen as divine perfection, and the one for who they would gladly and without the slightest hesitation give their life to spare.
I can rule between forgery, confusement and love, but for the true love that I speak of, you must be your own judge.