Sunday, January 4, 2009

Till The Bitter End

(Untitled Cityscape, 2008)

I won't let go of the sand falling between my fingers. I'll carry this sand in fistfuls for as long as I could. I'll run like the river, hands still holding on, I'll walk through crowds, bump into strangers, and j-walk across traffic, I'll sleep at night, holding on to everything and struggling to keep every grain safe. Like coffee in open cups on a bumping road, like the steam on mirrors after a shower, everything will eventual fade away. But in a world of what-if, and the possibilities this feeling, of sand in my hands will remain, until I fall, until the glass-bottom boat cracks and the once admired sea life rushs in with the flood and eats us alive. I can no longer feel a fist, nor the gaps between my fingers as my hands feel as it whole, as one, as I reflect on the time that has passed. I am at a foothill looking over a mountain, I am an ant to the world outside of his colony, with steps, with breathes away from the end of possibilities and the beginning of realization. And the sand can be or not be in my opening hands as I drop everything, the contains of my hands, the structure of my life as I have known it, the ideas I had, the believes I lived by, until everything is left just one step away from where I am presently standing as I look forwards, seeing nothing I have known as I leave this place behind. May it forget me as I forget of once was; along the way, along the journey.

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