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the days of dirt and sand

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Soft streams of sand begun to poor from his opened hand, slowly... slower... Its delicate texture against the hardened skin. He reached with the thumb, gently, as gently as he could... Oh, would it ever be gently enough?

The sea was opening, endless, in front of him. Yet he would not raise his head. Not even as he came there, at the end of a day's work, drawn by the moistured whispers of the waves - not even then did he look at her. He liked to know her closer, where she could fit in his arms... or his opened hand. Where he could know that she smiles for him...

The sea was always there, behind, to remind him, as he dipped his soul deeper and deeper into work. The dirt kept him back, but he struggled and struggled, stubbornly, with the swollen hands and the bent back, to overcome, the pain, the tension between them. And there were days when he could not reach her. And then, at the end, having found his way back to the beach, eventually, he would just sit there, not daring to touch the sand and find it harsh and cold...

She would have liked the gardens here, on the island. And the flowers. Everything grew abundantly, nature was generous. And there was a pretty cottage near the gardens. In some good days, he smiles to himself, imagining she lives inside it. Sometimes he would rise his eyes from the ground to catch her passing by the window and sometimes the sun happens to reflect in the glass and smile back... And in the evening he would come home, with food and with coins, and tired, but with her only in mind. He would open the door, the smell of fresh flowers would welcome him and an undescribable feeling, like the joy of anticipation, would make his heart beat faster... But usually he keeps his head down, to hold the smile a little longer. He smiles to her wherever she is...

Would he ever be able to become good enough? Of all the uncertainties of the future, this troubles him the most. Hope, love seem to drive him forward, yet the road only becomes clear again when it is returning to himself and then it doesn't seem to lead anywhere else for a while. And he is at peace. And a faint thought begins to form in the distance, the thought that he does not become for himself... He remembers the gods then and he feels as in one of Jayden's flasks, mixed and separated and purified and then mixed again. Until, for a little while, the Sun is again revealed, smiling to the whole world. And in that light, Aluwen's words are the last to leave him: "to meet the world through his love for her"...

But in the quiet evenings, after his self and his troubles remaind behind, mixed with the dirt where something useful is hoped to grow, when he just sits there, on the beach, with the sand like her hand in his hand, his heart still asks softly: "would he be able to express his love?"

Edited by wenyadur

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