Before I became what I am now, I moved across that burning desert wrapped in leather and heavy cotton, each layer hardened by heat and sweat. My steps sank deep with every push forward, slowing me, bending me, pulling the last traces of strength from my body.

The air tasted metallic and dry enough to cut.
The horizon stretched in the same repeating line, a distant shimmer with no shift, no break.

When the sun began to sink, the heat loosened and the wind cooled.
I stopped on the crest of a dune and watched the sky turn into metal and fire.

In the quiet that followed, the desert shifted.
Its harshness settled, and the stillness revealed itself.

A faint trace of green moved through the cooling air — a whisper of life carried by the wind.
I breathed it in and felt the first signal of renewal. A hope, a reason to continue. 

Desert Hope is that memory — the moment the desert stripped me down and gave shape to the one I would become.