I've got this little sand castle I've built. It's lovely with its swirling turrets, bulging mote and divinely protective drawbridge. But it is made of just sand. What I hate is how desperately I want my little castle to reside at the water's edge where contentment and wonderment co-exist. I am intrigued by a locale that humbly boasts such a juxtaposition.
My waterfront estate sits unassuming, basking in contradiction. Its home on the shore offers the combination of both the statis of peace and the intrigue of curiousity. One feels content to breathe in the fresh cool breeze that swishes onto the shore...the air and the water and the bumpy gold carpet...it calls us to introspection. And yet, contrastly, the ferocity of the unknown overwhelms one with all of the possibility that a view of the horizon inspires...so much unknown lies beneath and beyond.
The water's edge comes with its limitations. You see, my sandcastle lasts little longer than the swing of the tide. In its fragile condition, the feeble construct suffers from the threat of wind and wave. I am desperate to remain in this place that keeps me feeling the overwhelming joy of peace and challenge--but my dear castle will always be slowly dwindling away. And every time I rebuild it, no drawbridge or mote will ever protect it from eventual collapse.
Are things always this way? Are our constructions always decaying? Are we in a perpetual state of entropy?
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I heard Jerry Seinfeld say, "Once you buy something it now all of a sudden starts to slowly become junk." (Except he said it in a funny way that made everyone laugh)
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