I stand at the foot of the pounding ocean. Every hope, every dream I have will be no more than a single grain of sand to the world, a nothing beyond notice, not substantial enough to be forgotten. The sun will set and rise again, washing away the old, a child with no memory.
We live our lives in an orb of self-importance, sharing other orbs, repelling yet others. Is our dance any different than the very molecules we are built from? Are all our longings stamped into existence by electric current, filling the spaces between? Things fall apart, but oh the bittersweet rush of the fall! Breaking away from the set patterns, feeling the rogue attraction of a passing current - we are what we are made of. Is it so wrong to be made of the universe? To be a part of the godlike enormity of it all, a stepping stone in between matter and planet - or must we feel special, a being of celestial exquisiteness, a matter unencountered anywhere else?
I lie down in the sand, letting the waves touch me, letting the sand mingle into my skin. For a short time, I dream the dreams of the sand. The waves carry my hopes to unknown destinations. Electrons and wishes mingle in a microcosmic dance as the sun washes over the shores, settling down for the ever-new day to begin again.