Love in the desert

The desert is proud to say that it is perfectly fine without love, thank you very much.

One week after our arrival to the kibbutz in the Southern Negev, I got sick. I had never felt so weak and destroyed before. I had high fever, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t think and I couldn’t feel anything. For a week, I lay in bed and groaned.

The desert grabbed me, chewed me, and a week later, it spit me out.

The desert is fine without people. It has everything it needs by default. Sun, mountains, rocks, stones, sand, wind, scorpions, snakes and wolves. Nothing else. No bullshit.

If we need water in the desert, we must bring water to the desert. If we need food in the desert, we must bring food to the desert. If we need a house in the desert, we must bring building material to the desert and build one.

If we need love in the desert, we must bring love to the desert.

Rules are that simple here.

But
what if
the love
we bring to the desert
remains unrequited?

What if
we open our hearts
and nobody
opens their heart back?

What if
we stand
under the Sun,
in the wind,
among the mountains, rocks, stones, sand, scorpions, snakes and wolves
alone?

The episode happened when these questions came to my mind.

The week the desert chewed me.

It was huge.

I was lying in bed, still sick like hell, and I didn’t understand where this vertigo, retching, sweating, hyperventilation and mortal fear came from.

And then
— three hours later —
I realized.

It was not the flu anymore. It was something else.

Much worse.