Sand
I have 3 stories to tell. One is about holding on, the other is about letting go, and another is about...well, you decide. They all have one thing in common.
The simple, common, plebian quality that we call sand.
We, like children on the beach, hold all the sand we can in our two little hands. We scoop as much of it as possible, longing, eager to possess it. As soon as we have gathered our little hoards, little by little it seeps away. We stare at our full hands in stunned silence, watching it diminish from a mountain to a hill to a heap to a pile. Suddenly springing into action, we, like children, not understanding, grasp even tighter, trying to hold on to the sand as tightly as possible. As we do this, the cracks between our fingers suddenly widen, and sand falls away more quickly. Frantically, still not understanding, we continue to tighten our grip as we stare, heartbroken, as the sand falls away from our fingertips onto the ground below. It happens quicker now than a second before, and as we tighten our grip, it falls away gratefully, escaping from the human prison we have enclosed the grains within. As we feel the last of the sand melt away, we, like little children playing on the beach, feel anguished at our loss. But no, no, the parents say. Look all around you, dear child. The sand doesn't belong in your hands. It belongs on the beach. But we don't understand, and we cry and mourn our loss, not comprehending that we never had it in the first place. And as our tears fall thus from our eyes, the parents tell us, no child, don't you see? look around you. The sand is everywhere. For the sand isn't in your hands, but you are in its brown, coarse hands.
The tears roll by, and as they fall the distance from our tightly-shut eyes to the sand below, the saline melts away the soothing camouflage of the sand below. The sifting sands reveal a glimpse of buried treasures, but as we dig further we find that there are none, for it was but an illusion. There we find our salvation, in searching for the treasures that seem tantalisingly close but were always and forever infinitely far. But we do not comprehend, and we will always and forever seek that which we cannot have. The sands shift. What was once uncovered became buried and what was secure has now been compromised. We adjust to the everchanging landscape, hoping to get lucky. Some of us do; most of us don't. The parents chide us, motions to us, telling us not to look for that which we will never find. But we hold the image of those who succeed sacred, and we hammer out bronze and iron and copper plaques with their names etched and engraved forever to spur us on. And as with the theme of sand, we find our salvation elusive.
As we search, we uncover and cover things which we were not covered or uncovered prior to our disturbia. As gentle winds blow, we find the landscape also changes without our interference. Some things surface, others submerge. Some things are exposed to light, others are trapped in darkness. We observe this pheonomena and find fascination in it. Our curiosity overwhelms us and we can no longer be passive observers of this change, but become active, aggressive agents of change. we search for that which are partially revealed, and we eagerly dig them out. The sand does not like this interference; it struggles and resists, it does not give up its treasures easily. Our persistence sometimes triumphs, whilst at other times it fails. And so begins our battle, our tussle with sand; we seek to force it to give up its secrets, but it does not relinquish them freely. Our progress is uncertain, makeshift, shaky. Some days we find we have gained an inch; other days we lose a yard. But we persevere. Then, as it were, the parents bestow upon us a stuptor, and a hurricane blows over all which is obscured by sand. In a flash we find that we have scored an overwhelming victory, and all things have now come to light. Yet as we try to collect these things which are our spoils, we find our victory short-lived. Our hurricane is about to pass, and the sand threatens to obscure all once more. Desperately we try to gather everything we can, and we do.
But we have failed to notice something. As we have done all that we done, we find sand everywhere amongst us. Its grains are, as it were, ingrained within us, and we find that we cannot shake it off. So we are doomed, forever, to be sandmen. In more ways than one.
But did we not hear the parents motioning, begging, screaming for us to stop?
The simple, common, plebian quality that we call sand.
We, like children on the beach, hold all the sand we can in our two little hands. We scoop as much of it as possible, longing, eager to possess it. As soon as we have gathered our little hoards, little by little it seeps away. We stare at our full hands in stunned silence, watching it diminish from a mountain to a hill to a heap to a pile. Suddenly springing into action, we, like children, not understanding, grasp even tighter, trying to hold on to the sand as tightly as possible. As we do this, the cracks between our fingers suddenly widen, and sand falls away more quickly. Frantically, still not understanding, we continue to tighten our grip as we stare, heartbroken, as the sand falls away from our fingertips onto the ground below. It happens quicker now than a second before, and as we tighten our grip, it falls away gratefully, escaping from the human prison we have enclosed the grains within. As we feel the last of the sand melt away, we, like little children playing on the beach, feel anguished at our loss. But no, no, the parents say. Look all around you, dear child. The sand doesn't belong in your hands. It belongs on the beach. But we don't understand, and we cry and mourn our loss, not comprehending that we never had it in the first place. And as our tears fall thus from our eyes, the parents tell us, no child, don't you see? look around you. The sand is everywhere. For the sand isn't in your hands, but you are in its brown, coarse hands.
The tears roll by, and as they fall the distance from our tightly-shut eyes to the sand below, the saline melts away the soothing camouflage of the sand below. The sifting sands reveal a glimpse of buried treasures, but as we dig further we find that there are none, for it was but an illusion. There we find our salvation, in searching for the treasures that seem tantalisingly close but were always and forever infinitely far. But we do not comprehend, and we will always and forever seek that which we cannot have. The sands shift. What was once uncovered became buried and what was secure has now been compromised. We adjust to the everchanging landscape, hoping to get lucky. Some of us do; most of us don't. The parents chide us, motions to us, telling us not to look for that which we will never find. But we hold the image of those who succeed sacred, and we hammer out bronze and iron and copper plaques with their names etched and engraved forever to spur us on. And as with the theme of sand, we find our salvation elusive.
As we search, we uncover and cover things which we were not covered or uncovered prior to our disturbia. As gentle winds blow, we find the landscape also changes without our interference. Some things surface, others submerge. Some things are exposed to light, others are trapped in darkness. We observe this pheonomena and find fascination in it. Our curiosity overwhelms us and we can no longer be passive observers of this change, but become active, aggressive agents of change. we search for that which are partially revealed, and we eagerly dig them out. The sand does not like this interference; it struggles and resists, it does not give up its treasures easily. Our persistence sometimes triumphs, whilst at other times it fails. And so begins our battle, our tussle with sand; we seek to force it to give up its secrets, but it does not relinquish them freely. Our progress is uncertain, makeshift, shaky. Some days we find we have gained an inch; other days we lose a yard. But we persevere. Then, as it were, the parents bestow upon us a stuptor, and a hurricane blows over all which is obscured by sand. In a flash we find that we have scored an overwhelming victory, and all things have now come to light. Yet as we try to collect these things which are our spoils, we find our victory short-lived. Our hurricane is about to pass, and the sand threatens to obscure all once more. Desperately we try to gather everything we can, and we do.
But we have failed to notice something. As we have done all that we done, we find sand everywhere amongst us. Its grains are, as it were, ingrained within us, and we find that we cannot shake it off. So we are doomed, forever, to be sandmen. In more ways than one.
But did we not hear the parents motioning, begging, screaming for us to stop?
bkwy saw the light at 5:13 AM
and received 0 comments from curious onlookers.
