When our journey in this life reaches an end ; and we start to fade away from people's memories, isn't it scary to think that our stories won't be told anymore and that we would disappear like the morning dew when the sun rises ?
One of the greatest wonders that i could never fathom is how would the waves that engulf your bare feet in the coldest of nights by the sea shore feel so warm. Warmer than the water at the surface...How the soft, small sand grains seep between your fingers and replace the memory of the greatest foot-massage you have felt in your entire life...How the waves seem so angry, so sinister when you are standing beyond their reach, yet they suddenly calm down and embrace you with a keen passion the deeper you immerse yourself in the water and become one with the sea...
But the most puzzling enigma of all is how you can often hear, during quite, starry nights when there aren't many wanderers disturbing the peace of the infinite blue, faint whispers coming from the multitude of foot marks imprinted on the white sand.
Yes, I dare say I spent more time by the shore than anywhere else in the world. Wherever I go, I'm drawn to the ocean. To the sea, to the lake, it calms me. That's where I belong.
But the most puzzling enigma of all is how you can often hear, during quite, starry nights when there aren't many wanderers disturbing the peace of the infinite blue, faint whispers coming from the multitude of foot marks imprinted on the white sand.
Yes, I dare say I spent more time by the shore than anywhere else in the world. Wherever I go, I'm drawn to the ocean. To the sea, to the lake, it calms me. That's where I belong.
They whisper in a monotonous, low tone, these footprints. You can't hear them clearly unless you close your eyes and shut up the voices in your head and adapt yourself to the sound of the waves...Close your eyes, for you can listen to the voices swarming in the darkness far better when you can't see, each and every one of them is telling a story : A story of someone we don't know, a story of someone we might have known, a story of someone we might get to know some day.
"Until the end of times , keep me alive", they implore.
One can almost feel the warmth of the person that left every trail..
How many of these people are still alive ? how many of them remember when they left these footprints ?...how many of them have changed and how many are still the same ?
Every single trail printed on the plane of the earth tells a story of a person, an individual different from everyone else, with a heart like no other, with a character like no other.
And every footstep is a rebellion against time ; against fading away to the gloom of forgetting, against the vicious rising tide that despises history and puts in endless efforts to erase its marks printed on the brow of the shore.
All of us fear the nightmare of fading away , that's why we go out of our ways to force the oblivious world to remember us; some of us wish to remain immortal through the stories people tell about them, and so they spare no effort in connecting with those who might remember..some of us leave physical mementos; books, memoirs, paintings, sculptors that remind the world of their existence, so the next generations would still point out at their legacies and know they were there and alive once upon a time... Some of us leave their footprints by the beach, by the rocky knolls ; in a place where the vindictive waves and the mischievous foots of wanderers can't reach and erase them...and with every deep step they leave a fragment of a wish : "Until the end of times , keep me alive".
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