A hundred thousand pairs of boots stomping and shuffling on the coarse and unpaved path, I march along in the moving sea of grey and white. I pull my cap further downwards, shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun and the sheer whiteness ahead and around me.
It feels like we’ve been walking for a long, long time; I struggle to remember when we had last come across a town, or a proper building with other people in it. I can’t seem to recall when exactly did we start our long journey. Was it a week ago? A month? Half a year ago?
Where are we going, exactly?
Why are we gathered like this?
Curious, I nudged my neighbour, sunburnt and emotionless.
“Where are we going?”
His lazy eyes slid towards me, then returned to the ground.
Not very friendly, but okay.
I continue to march obediently, but with every step other questions come to mind: Why are we marching like this, wearing this, who is leading us, how do we know when this will end?
The feeling of not knowing gnawed at my patience, and once again I try to ask someone, a different neighbour from the opposite side now.
“Just shut up and walk,” he barks, irking a few others around us.
“We’re going to the place,” a soothing voice of a woman came from my back.
“The place?” I asked further.
“Yes, The Place. Where we are meant to go,” she replied.
“What’s at The Place?”
“Everything. It’s where everyone goes when they’re selected. Where we can find perfection.”
Selected?
Perfection?
I recall being summoned to the great hall of my village, and being given a backpack of things in white; overalls, a cap, bags of packed foodstuff and cutleries, and boots. The memory of waking up at the break of dawn and putting everything on, and saying my last goodbyes to the people I’d grown to love and care for. Seeing their teary, smiling faces one last time as I waved at them at the gate of the village still tugs at my heartstrings. They were so proud of me for being chosen on this journey. I wonder how they are now. Are they well?
People who are selected on this journey are said to be very blessed, that they are meant for something grand. Every year, a hundred thousand names are chosen from all around the world. A hundred thousand packs of white garments are distributed. A hundred thousand people of all walks of life gather to march on this seemingly endless journey. Without a guide, without a direction, only a destination: The Place.
Nobody ever saw those that had left to The Place; All that is left of their existence is the fact that they have left for something better than the lives they were born into. Better in what way, exactly? Who knows.
‘The chosen will find their way,’ that’s what they all say. Well, I’m just glad that I’m not on any edge of this army, because I certainly wouldn’t know where to go, chosen or not.
As dusk creeps onto the skies, chasing away the sun to make way for the moon, we slow to a halt. Sitting down, right in the middle of vast nothingness, we took out a pack of what I thought to be soup from our bags. I tore off a corner of the packaging, and slowly suck the contents into my mouth, tasting the mild bitterness of the thick liquid. I never can tell what exactly it is made of, but all we needed is a small pack of it a day and we will never go hungry or thirsty despite spending most of our time under the hot sun.
