Sand
Holding a handful of sand
Watching the whitecaps
The wave bursts onto the shoreline
Holding my handful of sand
I kneel
I wait
I bow
I think
I lower my hands to the ground
The flecks of gold are like paste in my palms
Every grain is a memory
Every colour a thought
The paste is the glue that holds the past together
The tide reaches up on the shoreline
The tide creeps to the ends of my arms
My hands show signs of wear
The salt water of an ocean of tears seeps through my fingers
The sand washes it away.
Washed away
With a clean slate and a clear mind I feel more than vindicated.
- Bran.
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To start off, this write up will be a post of past journal entries from a decade, years, months, days or jots on post-its and receipts. As well as little quippets on how I am doing as a writer in the self publishing market. I hope the reader will be romanced or pleasantly amused by what he scours over.
Followers
Blog Archive
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2010
(78)
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February
(18)
- Blind of Ear
- Somewhere Else
- Angelic Frustration
- Blame Game
- Coasting Ferry
- Sapphire Bay Beach, St. Thomas, USVI
- Virgin Gorda, BVI
- Sense of Direction
- Sand
- A tad sexy
- Underestimation of You
- Strength Reserve
- Sadness
- Acceptance
- Flight
- Are you?... You are?
- Pins and Needles
- Blindness/An Injustice - February '10
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February
(18)
About Me
- Bran.
- Building up from most disasters takes a lot of time. That's where I am now... it's kind of cool when you feel like a sports team in the rebuilding phase.
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