The waves lap the shore unearthing the pieces of earth only to deposit them some place far away. I wonder what it is like to be that piece of a sand, a lone drifter in an ocean with powerful volumes of liquid and sediment, the waves lifting and carrying you.
Alone. No control. Washed away. Inconsequential.
The waves again tug at the shore, but this time they have a gift. It is magnificent in its’ uniqueness, splendid in the way that it catches the light and sun. The surf slowly deposits this gift on the shore of a distant land, no longer in the struggle of the surf.
It is peaceful. It is beautiful. It is home.
joyfulwritinglife 