I removed the slippers embracing my feet, my feet that seemed so exhausted because of the hours of walking. And at the moment those feet felt the sands again, I sensed coldness- the coldness brought about by the sea winds—caressing me and my entirety. Odd as it was as it soothed me- grateful though as if the wind has the ability to heal, heal something that was incrementally wearing me during those times.
Purposely I sat down facing the sun. I devoured on its warmth. The monsoon breeze blending with the sun’s heat will be perpetually perfect for my senses. My hands commenced to amuse themselves with the grains--fondly playing with their softness. I attempted to confine them in my palms; I confined them so tightly and got marveled by the thought that the grains, regardless of how firmly I grasp on them, still manage to escape. Perhaps, the grains do not like me. Or just maybe, the grains do not belong to me. Again, my struggling fists tried to imprison them, and over again all my attempts failed-- for the grains were able to flee again, flee back to the place where they ought to belong.
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