The Sand, The Sea and The Feet

The magnanimity of the horizon stood defeated in the moonless dome of the night. A familiar landscape, the sea and the shore, yet hardly anybody dares to come near it when the power of the moon calls the tide to rise. Tonight, it has been robbed off its voice, delivering to man liberty to see the starlit ocean so rare.

Ah! The sky misses an orb, and where the expanse flows till infinity, the eyes do miss light. Without that, the herculean stillness, save for some roaring waves, scares something in you. It reminds you starkly and rudely, that you exist, you breathe and you do make a mark in the sand. It stays till you stay, is washed away when you walk away, but now the ocean holds a part of you in it, and that is perhaps permanent, so permanent that you are scared to be a part of it. You want to stay, and preserve the mark beneath your feet. But you can’t, it’s not in your nature, you have to flow, you have to change.

And water does wash it all…filth, wound, tears and milestones on sands. The bank it not meant for permanency, nor are the feet and marks they make. Millions of drops make an ocean, millions of tears drown, and tons of mud settles deep below. Water keeps it all. It takes, holds, and preserves it all. It preserves the drop.

The crest and fall of the waves purge the soiled feet you see not. The black tar rages in front and you suddenly wish it would cease to move, or at least not be so turbulent and powerful that it drives and drowns your soul in it, trying to take even that one drop of life which you possessed so rightfully under the sun. But now it imparts to the drop an insatiable wish to expand…so much significance to one meek drop!

It is true. Your darkest hour reveals the most in you; it is then that you light the inward candle and the little light in that meek drop is enough to show you your feet and a step ahead…which you know is all you need for now. Night is not so cruel; it is just a dependent slave. It wouldn’t even exist without light. And so it waits for an order from the ray of light in that candle it can see. It is true. The hours, ecstatic or melancholy, filled or solitary, never did exist before you created them. And the feet stand near the deserted ocean, waiting for a light that in turn waits for them to take a step ahead…