Sand

Driving through Sarasota, I almost begin to feel pity for those whose full foundations are stuck in the ground. Most buildings here base themselves with pillars of concrete, solid roots that seem to sprout from the asphalt parking lots, solid reflections of the abstract fears of the patrons of each business. The clientele of the earth-hugging establishments glare enviously upwards towards their loftier compatriots as my window passes by each panorama.

Walking along the beach at dusk, I think back to the stilted edifices as the shifting light makes the buildings’ pillars appear as legs, as if the buildings were simply resting and would, at any moment, get up and join our stroll. I point this out to my companion and she laughs, lecturing me on how anything as stiff and bulky would most certainly make a spectacle on the beach, slipping and sliding over the shifting sands. As we decide to turn back, I pause for a moment, and feel the sand beneath my toes and the waves lapping at my ankles. At that moment, I resolve:

I would rather face the insecurity and embarrassment of my choices and actions than remain motionless as the sands of my life shift around me.