Sand Statues

It's been a while since I last wrote. And as I glue notes and printed faces in my yellow notebook, the year passes in front of my eyes in flashes. Smiling eyes and green hoodies, apple pie with cinnamon, a run to the top of the mountain. Unpacking and packing again, little gifts, chocolate with love notes, deep late night conversations. Tea with honey, rainy days, nervousness before coming on stage, poem writing. Deep blue eyes staring into mine on a Sunday afternoon, a slow waltz to a french song in a room lit by fairy lights.

My glued remembrances will never be enough to pin down the moments that flood my mind. Nor will they hold the people that co-created such memories, some of which I already lost, other who will soon be gone... In a place like this, one learns a lot about the transitory nature of relationships. And in a general sense, of life: in a 24/7 constantly moving world like ours, what stays for long? I don't mind if the answer is nothing. Because in gluing little pieces of days, reliquary of past joys and pains, I also realized the beauty in finitude. There's a value to broken hearts, nostalgic staring at pictures and "what if I could go back" feelings. The value is the blatant failure of us as humans to hold time - it just slips through our fingers as sand grains fall from the hourglass. And by looking back and realizing how quick a moment becomes a memory, we can learn to better appreciate memories in the making. If my journal kept each wonderful moment in its totality and it was possible for me to revive it every time I opened the page, I would be satisfied enough with emotions from the past. But the way it is, old memories aren't enough to fuel happiness, and so it keeps us in the endless pursue of souvenirs - crafting moments to remember even if they only last this long.

I finished gluing my pictures, and closed the notebook. Enough of memory, I need more present. The moon is bright outside, and it seems like a good night to tailor sand statues - the result might blow with the wind, but at least I have them now - and they are beautiful.

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