post secret

Bill Henson (2)

the wind of the desert wasn’t enough underneath her feet. every step of her running legs brought up the dirt and the sand of the desolated place, which hit her eyes, her arms, her face. microscopic cuts appearing on her skin, tiny tiny drops of blood. but rattled glass wouldn’t stop her, it could not stop her. she had to run, just run away, bare-feet, poorly clothed. she had to run as fast as she could, run away from family, job, society. she had to regain control, to offer herself once again to nature. she could not bare no longer the thought that she had lost the sense of free-spirit she wore so vehemently when she was younger.


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