With the strangeness engulfing each footstep of mine,
And the uneven pressing of little sand dunes all over the place,
The vastness of the ocean stupefies me,
To bring into pre conceived connotations of umber sanctity.
And as I walk down the trail the waters leave behind,
I wonder about how things were back then or how they would be,
Only if I had reminisced the purity,
and the languid manner of how my life unfolded.
I am afraid,
Each passing day, each moment,
Afraid of having to be obliviated,
Obliviated to oblivion from someone’s memory,
A sweet harmonical lullaby strikes a chord with my beats,
A chastening experience of life and utter feeling of being wanted, being loved.
I caress the sand underneath me, as I lay bare its contents with an irrevocable ability to find meaning,
Meaning of my actions, my words,
My uneasiness about how tranquility and hope are just two silver spoons stacked together.
I stand up from where I was sitting and look at the impressions I have made on the sand while I have been there,
I take 7 steps backward and I wait until a not so gentle wave comes knocking on my unkept legs,
The impressions are gone and so is the Proof of their existence and demeanour while it lasted.
I think this is what social security actually refers to,
It’s the existence, the proof of having to settle for a amicable reassurance of social bonding one needs, to make sure that the impression stays,
Doesn’t get washed over by waves of insecurity, lust, pain and the feeling of not being wanted in the society.
All we people need is a person who comes up to us and acts as a buffer to us, has a contingency plan for our emotional draws,
Acts as a shield on the beach, while telling us to make a sandcastle of these impressions.
That person I guess becomes what is an elemental constituent of all our desires, our actions and inactions.
The other world people call this person Hope.
The Hope to understand oneself and others.
Hope is a good thing, they say. Probably the best of the things.
And no good thing ever dies.