Immaterial

Snowflakes are patient. They fall obliging to but not submitting to the gravity. Like autumn leaves, they are wise. Their purposes are served once they rest. Hundreds and thousands of them lie down on gray earth knowing they would coalesce with it one day. They die beautiful.

The bricks who burn and the glasses who are cut, are not opulent with such subtlety. They know they were born ugly. It is a terrible feeling when there are fewer eyes deep enough to look through the apparent. So bricks build civilization and glasses hide them - conveniently in squares, rectangles and circles. They believe they were pretty twins before the fire came in the wrong hands of Prometheus.

Then there are sands. They don't die, they don't mould. Futility allures them still. With every rushing wave they wish to go inside, somewhere deep, but proud as the Ocean is. Neither helps the little toes nor curious palms who try to keep them tightly. Sands are not meant to belong. They lie in between shy red crabs and wise blue sea. Sometimes broken oysters tell them stories of the other world. At nights they count stars and win.

There are no metaphors above. Life was always about realizing who we shouldn't let go of. Everything else was material.


- Soumya