Oasis, they call it ...

I got ahold of the edge of an idea the other day, and it's been knocking around in my head for a few days, and when I woke up this morning, I knew that I had to write a story about this person I've gotten to know (made up) who got dropped (literally) into an impossible situation.

Oasis, they call it

Prison without cells, without guards, without walls, without horizon or edge or end.

Water and food and shade, all free for the taking, enough for all, enough forever;
that's the trap, the anchor, the walls, the cell.

An endless sea of sun and sky and scalding sand,
stretching to horizon after horizon after horizon after horizon.

I'm here, with them, the others, the forgotten, his discards;
they wait, for nothing more or less than life, or time itself, to end.

I was dropped into Oasis a month ago.

You can't escape, because you're free to go.

I left twice, with all the food & water I could carry;
both times I defeated myself, caught myself, returned on my own ... on my knees.

It takes a horrible mind, a horrible man, a horrible power,
to make a man his own jailer.

My reality is this desert, this deserted life,
but I dream of the woods and waters and beasts of my home.

Dreams are strength and power, especially in this place;
I still dream of home, I still have power.

I will escape Oasis.

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