My Love Affair with the Desert

There is something sacred about the desert.

A silence so pure, it humbles the soul. I am endlessly drawn to it—not for what it offers, but for what it strips away. In the desert, everything is clean. There is no clutter, no noise, no rush. Just space. Just stillness. Just truth.

You barely hear a sound—maybe the faint murmur of a distant airplane cutting across the sky, like a forgotten whisper. Time feels ancient here. The wind doesn’t just pass; it remembers. It tells stories only the red dunes understand.

At sunset, the desert becomes a cathedral of fire. If you’re in the right place, at the right time, you may see a caravan drifting across the horizon—its rhythm unbroken by centuries. Their silhouettes move like poetry, etched against the golden glow, as if reenacting a scene unchanged for a thousand years.

And when the sun dips low, the sand catches its final breath—turning crimson, then violet, then surrendering to the dark. A sight to die for? No, a sight to live for.

hen comes the cold. The kind that makes you lean in close to the fire, to the comfort of a single flame dancing near the tent. You sip something warm, wrap yourself tighter, and wait. Because after midnight, the sky unveils its masterpiece.

Stars spill across the heavens like shattered glass. The Milky Way arches above, a celestial chandelier hung in God’s great hall. And in that moment—camera in hand, eyes wide, heart still—you feel it.

The desert isn’t empty.

It’s everything.