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Fine Lines were drawn on the wet sand bed; I looked at the sun setting in the horizon, ships painted like small objects on a painted ocean, and then came a few stars and the sky in a million dazzling colors. I took a twig, and painted my imaginations, my joys and my secrets on the beach. It stayed there for as long as I did, and as long as I did stay there I didn’t want to leave. Years later those fine lines were drawn again by the jigsaws of time, not on the sand floor, but on my face. Sometimes, I visit that place where I put up my first fight to stand ground and see in my memories vivid, that same setting sun, those silent ships thrown far away floating on a perfect line separating water and sky, those tiny dots scattered across the sky. As I go back to my past, I can recollect those moments, those days of the summer vacation when I drew that figure on the beach. That time can’t be forgotten as easily as the years that have passed in between. And then as I walked back, having to fight no one but the chill, I recall that day in my summer vacation, when I spent those long hours doing that one small thing. And I collect myself, walked back, being glad that I did.
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