Brink

My beach sandals shall come to know of a day when they cannot press the sand anymore. They do not know why they hurt the sand and anyone who comes in between. Each step hears the cry of many whom they never ever met before. And they simply stamp a relic like the ink between a block print. The burden left a mark so deep that their weep dripped a salt strained in a sieve unforgiving. If they had the will they can fly aloft where the sweet winds can carry the cold smile of them. Like why we do the things we do there are so many reasons that neither they nor I may ever know and yet we do and they remain with us.

Then come a day, a day as close as the light that touches me, when my sandals will step on a rim. That is when they shall say, “Oh! The one who holds the press, try if you can, and print a mark with me. For now we have come at the edge of the storm, where the thunder deafens my ears and I can hear you no more. And now we have come to a point of no return, and the lightening blinds my sight so guide me if you can. Now that we have climbed up the tall smooth and shiny bottle, a fragile one that is slippery yet colourful and reflects that we do. We made it halfway up the neck and still not enough and here we are today almost about to step on the lip.”

Imagine the moment on the brink from where we shall journey all the way again but on the other side. Like a fairy we shall fly and like a firefly we shall glow. Before our reflections were smaller since we were crawling along the outer surface of the bubble. And if we ever pass through we shall see ourselves no matter which way we turn.

My sandals shall come to know of this day and that moment when I can no more lay my burdens on them. I cannot imagine the everlasting floating selflessness that I shall be when passing through the rim. And it is when I shall leave my sandals at the threshold of myself.