Imagine sipping a piña colada on a beach in Barbados. Where a wind kisses your cheeks, whispering through the language of the palm trees. Your lips purse as you sip its imaginary juices. It feels tangy. Fresh. Everything this moment lacked. Now, a murky cloud begins to form in the shape of a camel, its humps swelling outwards. You shrivel your eyes like paper catching a flame. Swallow emptiness. Gulp inwards. Clear your throat. Open your eyes.
You feel a sharp wind, like the shaft of a feather, itching your calves. Blood shooting through your arm’s vein, like gunshots. A tear blooming from your chin. Elongating like honey from a dipper, majestic and dignified. The lasting remnants of steam from a mug wiped clean with wet cloth, left to right, right to left, over and over again. Where dry tears show up on its gleaming white surfaces. The kind that spills from the eyes. Drools on the cheeks. Then tickles the wing of the nose.
And now you close your eyes again. Sip your imaginary piña colada. Smirk at its tanginess, its fizzy warmth, a cool breeze kissing your sweat with a subtle sharpness. That cloud, like a camel parading an empty dune, is coming. It is ominous. Its detailed shape. Its confidence. The strides it takes. The pride it has. And now it hides the pale silk of the sand. A bite of shade on your cheeks. A sharpness. A tenderness. You curl the corners of your lip towards the sky, towards the artwork above. The camel isn’t moving. The clouds are moving.
The camel is merely waiting.