In the Face of Forever, …

Each and every endeavor, every goal and aspiration seems like nothing more than a pile of sand, feeble and insignificant to the passing winds that would just as soon blow it over than the mounds and piles be made into something magnificent like a mountain teaming with life. Every action pours more and more sand onto the pile. The differences from day to day are almost unnoticeable in how they can be so unremarkable. Yet day in, day out, like Sisyphus we add sand to the piles. Some have more than others they like to contribute to, but all add sand the same. Some even prefer to give others their own sand in a sort of opposition to the whole notion of possessing one’s own little mound, but all that’s ever done is the piling of sand.

There are a few who believe that the sand will eventually appear to them as something greater than gold, or that they will be able to climb the sand to the heights of heaven. No one’s ever seen anything like this. They’re only rumors. As I sit day in and day out, adding more and more sand to different piles, I wonder what will ever be made of this. Will it only ever be a field of sand piles that I know, or will this be transformed in some way into something greater than a promise? Do the others know that this is only sand? Is the game, then, to see how much or how little sand one can amass? Why is it all so arbitrary? It’s because of the absurdity of it all, I think.

Well then. Play with your sand all you like. I don’t think I’m here for it. Instead, I think I’ll see what you see in this sand. Tell me. Why do you want so much time?

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