While thinking, I am a nomad roaming across the vast desert of my mind. The sear winds are the distractions of reality, temptations, slicing my eyes in a vain attempt to sway me from my meandering course. Dunes swirl into being with the wind, mounds of sand, my past thoughts. I am clothed in thick garb, and only my conscious eyes, intense blue from spice, can perceive the tearing wind and dunes of memories. I long to have the sand scrape against my skin and to be fully aware of my subconscious, but the thick protective robes of orthodoxy trap my mind. I wander, shuffling my boots through the shifting grains, as my mind wanders through thoughts blown by the northern simooms. Gusts rip the serrate rocks that loom often above; they are the pinnacles of wisdom from the ancient masters that serve to anchor my sails of thought. But the swarm of dusty grains distracts and parches my thoughts and stirs them into a ruptured cyclone of dry sanity. They circle in arid repetition as I trundle in concentric rings around the dunes, lost in the sandstorm. An oasis gleams as a pool of inspiration, the burst of genius that quenches the thirst of my mind. Ripples and waves scintillate in perfection, and I refresh my sponge of flesh. Blue lingers but a moment, until the whirling sands hurl me to the dunes, and I again become the nomad.