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Fine Sand

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And she’ll always slip through your fingers like too fine sand ground by life.

Ground by laughing too hard and grieving too dark. Eroded by the water falling from
her eyes and the storms raging in her mind. Carried away by the gentle touch of the
people she’s loved and the plundering hands of burglars – the ones who break into
bodies rather than cars to prey on self-esteem rather than cash, desperate for the
wrong kind of love. Every little grain being shaped and reshaped by loving whispers
and hateful yells, filled with gratitude and fear.

The finer the sand, the softer it gets. The more pleasant to touch, the more
troublesome to hold. The easier to fly like dust in the sky, the harder to keep all the
tiny pieces together.

The finer the sand, the higher the density. The more substance, the less air. The
heavier to carry, the stronger to build. You can build castles in the sky with it or even
out the unsteady ground that leaves you unstable.

Fine sand is hard to see but widely scattered. It easily gets lost in all the places in
between but if you look closely you’ll find it everywhere.

Fine sand is like her tender soul shimmering dimly in the most lustrous colours
hidden away in the darkest little corners. Not screaming for attention but only visible
to the ones who try. The ones who put in the effort to see all the shades of hope
glimmering in her eyes. The ones who know how to appreciate the fine things, the
hidden treasures. The ones who aren’t afraid to go on a quiet quest to discover the
millions of tiny fractures trapped in the sinister back alleys for only them to see.

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