Sandblasted

There are more grains of sand on earth than there are humans, animals, trees, and insects. Than there are stars in the sky. Than there are drops of water in the ocean, because even the seas of the world rest on a bed of earth.

Sand wears everything away. Takes everything back to childhood. Carves the ego of mountains down to size. Scratches the weary, itching wounds on the skin of the earth to peel it away layer by layer until nothing is left but the patiently sculpted bedrock within.

I am born of the earth. My skin is like its skin. My scars are just like the scars of the earth. Time has worn its gullies and valleys into my face like a tattoo. My substance is just sustenance for the creature within that is waiting to taste fresh air. Eroding its way free through relentless friction with the outside world. Like the earth, it is only by losing what I am that I can plumb my depths. What is flesh and blood but meat? What is my meat but the means to my end?

Don’t mourn the pieces of your life. You can’t find yourself without losing them. The journey from womb to coffin is just a journey from dark to dark, punctuated briefly by light. How strange it is that we strive all our lives to discover what we began as.

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