Winds of change

I stand on the shore as the waves gently roll in. There is wet sand between my toes and my feet sink in a little as I look down at them. It's all very quiet and cold and I wrap around my jacket a tad more tightly. There is a slight wind in my hair and its cold touch squeezes out a drop of tear from my left eye. It begins on its lonely, sorry journey on the side of my face. A few inches and it has already lost much of its promise. What started out from the eye with all of my hopes incarnate, is now but a spot of moisture and its essence has now vanished in the phantasm of its own non-existence. What is left behind is a dry white streak, a desiccated reminder of what could have been. The dry white streak is prominent and thick near the side of the eye and it thins out as it travels outward. It faints and sputters as if gasping for breath and finally it seems to give up against the onslaught of the cold wind and merges into nothingness. There was something brave about it. There was something hopelessly romantic about it. In some sense, there was something very artistic in its initial defiance. It seemed to embody the very essence of what makes us human, the courage to dream in the face of odds and be excited about the adventures of life. Its demise is a reminder of its own frailty against the brutal reality.

I am still looking down and the water is lapping up at my feet, taking away a little more sand as it recedes each time. It is cold and I hold on to my jacket. It is quite cold and very silent. The only sounds are the faint whistle of the wind and the far removed grunt of the deep ocean. And I keep looking down. I'm wondering how much will whither away in the face of such winds. I'm wondering about the lands which lie beyond the tumult and whether the edifices which this wind has begun to obliterate could even be recognized in their ruins. I wonder if I can come back here again some day in search of the scattered bricks and whether I can try, once again, to put them together and begin to make another dream castle, a frail little thing embellished with the audacity of hopeless romanticism and adorned with the fine beautiful beads of improbability. At least I hope so. Being unable to do that, for me, is such a sorry surrender.