The wide open spaces have a sorrow about them. Randall doesn’t think they’ve always had it, though propaganda would have people believe the cities were always the source of happiness. Something about the wind blowing over the exposed dirt, the back of tracks, the lack of life, doesn’t feel natural.
He’s seen the holos of deserts, of sand dunes as large as oceans with waves all their own. There’s solitude there, but not sorrow. It’s a natural space.
Thought the Corps deny it, Randall knows the dry earth he’s looking at now was once a forest. Ancient trees, wide leaves, underbrush growing in their shelter. It feels like the earth here remembers what it’s lost, is in mourning for the missing green.
He puts his hand on the ground, but he can’t feel life there — it isn’t his side of things. He feels the movement, the steady march toward whatever comes next, but it won’t be a forest again.
Not on its own.
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Mirrored from The Notebook