Sands

I feel the wind. I feel the spray. We are all like grains of sand, crushing together in panic as waves beyond our feeble comprehension fall upon us. We call them gods. We call them spirits. We call them peace and war, pain and pleasure, love and hate. My feet are bare; countless people stick to my soles, wet with the oceans of fears and hopes. There are rocks. Rocks of governments and churches and cults and armies. I watch as they are worn down, broken and buried and forgotten as the sea rages on. Has it ever ended? Does it continue onward into the haze of that horizon? Was it ever an empty basin, waiting for these human waters to flood forth? Who can know? We, as rocks, become the insignificant sands. We, as sands, wash away.