White Beach

As I sit on the shore with waves washing my feet, I pick a small stone not bigger than my pinky nail. I lay it on the ground, feel its smoothness and get amused by its uniqueness. I search for more stones and gather them. Then I get disappointed. Because I found a similar stone. To the one I thought was different from the rest. One by one the stones appear, bit by bit I get saddened by the fact it isn’t really one-of-a-kind. I throw the stones to the sea.

Now I write my name on the sand. It’s what everyone else does, besides building castles. Then here comes a big wave and washes out my name. Darn, why can’t it stay there for an hour? It’s either the wave or an unwanted foot. My name doesn’t deserve the latter so I guess the wave is better. And oh well, if the writings were permanent, I guess I wouldn’t have space to write anyway.

I begin to think. Is your heart like the sand? Did it erase everything before it let me in it?

But then again, I think. Am I just like the sand? Vulnerable to being erased?

It’s either by you. Or by an unwanted foot-faced person. (< haha)

Now I wonder how many names have been written and how many have gone.

I wish you could reserve me an area of cement by the shore. Then I wouldn’t care of anything else.

Until beaches have that, I think I’d rather be a tomb on a grave.