Gentle waves of water broke at the hem of my track pants, the sandy wind grazed past my eyes, some of it was reluctant to leave me, my hands had to rub them away, squinting my eyes shut to generate tears to wash away the sand, sending me back to the bread crumbs to the distant past, yesteryears of wasted nurturing.

My hands were my tool of survival, they had the talent, to show the world what I could do, what my hands could weave, ethereal piece of arts. I was enthralled by myself when I was a kid, that moment when my parents brought me to the beach, with that little move, my inquisitiveness buzzed in me, an incessant itch that would not go, the intention of playing with sand, not just playing with sand, but making something out of dust, grains of sand.

I started conjuring my first art works on the nearby beach every day, I went there after school every day. My weekends would be spent on the beach, my parents would take turns with me, to accompany me. They did the right move, unlike other parents, they would never complain or beleaguer me in any way possible, they were the catalysts of my unprecedented dreams, the unpredictable future of mine that would turn into an eventual reality.

“How did I do, dad?” I asked with my young voice,

“Wow… this is very good! Maybe you can do a little touch up here… and here.” He would place his big fat finger unto my sand art, sometimes his touches would make it into state-of-art, or else, “Sorry for destroying your work,” he would shrug and smile to me, I would smile back to him. There was once he turned my palm tree art into a tiki girl, we would laugh together at how the art turned into something hilarious.

The hysterical laughs and the quality time that we spent together as parents and son were brief, too short. Life started to hit me hard, school was on-going, homework was piling up in stacks, friends were hard to make, groups were difficult to mingle into, everything was new to me. I had lesser time for my art, the time to spend on the beach, the together time we had as a family. My heart was not accustomed to all these new facets of life, the sweet, the spice and the everything of life, I had to adapt, fast.

Bittersweet was the drudgery of the dread, the indelible scar that would be impaled in my path of life, varying it indefinitely. I was growing distant with my roots of dream, branching out into something more obscure, reality. As I laid foot into middle school, my dream had changed, it was something more absolute, not an art anymore. My parents did not say anything about me, they still supported me, directed me in the way that I dreamt to go.

“Son, let’s go watch a live show.” It was impromptu, I did not know what to expect, the show started off with some magic tricks, some rabbits jumping out of the black top-hat, some humans swinging from high places, the atmosphere was choking, excited, and hysterical.

“Let’s welcome our special guest of the night… *drumroll*, the sand artist!” the booming voice of the host reverberated in my ribs, I was surprised and not delighted, it was a mixed feeling, a nostalgia, a feeling that was mundane in my context, almost. Silence filled the room, he splashed the bucket of sand unto the transparent glass, giving it an imminent presence of a piece of great art, his fingers fluttered, frolicked, across the span of sand, the absolute ground to plough, to sow, and to reap a bountiful piece of art through the finite plane of spacetime.

Jaw dropped, awe-struck, I was left utterly astounded, the process of him creating his love for art on sand, an ephemeral object, so fragile that the waves would erase everything that you had created, the winds would kiss the arts goodbye in a blink of an eye. The show ended in a heartbeat, a kindle of flame in my archaic heart of passion, an attic that had not been opened for years, finally it shone in the glow of the olden days, those innocent days when I was ignorant, young and oblivious.

My parents brought me home that night. We did not speak. Silence was our only language, darkness was our melody, street lights were the accompaniment, glowing intermittently in the somnolent night. A pair of glowing lights zipped into existence, a second-wise of realization, another hit with an inundation of pain, literal pain. I blacked out, it was a good thing that I had my eyes closed when my parents died in front of me.

I checked out of the hospital, I did not know how to react or what to do. Having nowhere to go in mind, I had the only place in the eyes of my mind, the beach. Sitting at the spot, having the waves to brush my feet, the sand to graze my eyes, but lacking the ability to rub the sand off, tears started to roll down my cheek, depressed, sad, inferior, gradually falling into an abysmal pit of suicide.

My pairs of limbs used to create were torn apart in the operation, ripping away my very soul, my will to live, and an able body to use. I blamed the sky, the earth and the moon, realizing it would never change, reality, I had to surmount it, face-to-face. Scrambling unto my feet, I saw vague patterns of my distant past, tears plummeted into the mess of sand that I had created with my feet, my heart grappled on the sliver gossamer thread of hope, the silver cord of mine started to thickened with grit, and the immeasurable power to thrive for a fruitful future, a glorified past, and a hope de novo.

Saintly 

Craving for more? Down below:
The Internet and A Creator
Hardship vs. Grittiness
Redefining Pain, Life, Stress.
Untamed Libido (X-Rated)
Mind Over Matters
Some Wisdom
Mass Killing (Vegas Shooting)
Don’t Create Problems.

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