Solitude in the dunes can be as heavy as any stone. Day after day I train, refining gestures to guide gravity and time. But this morning, as I lift a small pebble with telekinetic ease, I notice how its shadow quivers strangely against the sand. Almost instinctively, I let it fall.
The pebble hits the ground and cracks apart. A moment's flicker--a tiny desert lizard darting away--saves my awareness. For an instant, I had held the power of a god in my palm and tossed fate like a coin. The thought of that terrifies me now.
My mind reels with questions: If I can pause the sun's descent or rewind rain's steps, who am I to decide which seconds are worth living? I drink deep from my water flask and let the sun bake my gaze.
I recall something an old priest said long ago: "The creator gave every living soul its own time." Perhaps that includes river water, falling rocks, and even the shadows of dunes. If I bend those too much, do I risk breaking the unseen clockwork of the world?
A gust kicks sand over the fractured pebble. I kneel, burying its pieces. This once-seemingly insignificant stone was part of this land's story, and now I have rewritten it. My hands shake.
For an hour I sit quietly. I send my mind outward through gravity's subtle threads, checking the balances: distant tides, orbiting sands, city noise thousands of miles away. Everything seems intact. Perhaps the universe is forgiving, or perhaps I was gentle enough this time.
When I rise, dusk has tinted the dunes gold and violet. I know I must find restraint. I am a guardian of balance, not a king of destiny. The power at my fingertips is real, but so is my doubt. I vow silently to use it only when necessary.
Fingers brushing the ancient carving on my pendant--my father's gift of the Adinkra symbol Gye Nyame, symbol of the omnipotence of a higher power--I am reminded that I am part of something greater than myself. I will carry this humble knowledge with me, as I tiptoe into destiny.