Sandcastles

“What is life?” someone had asked. “A sandcastle,” I had replied. Sandcastles are so incredibly fragile. We painstakingly invest an immense amount of time to mould and to embellish. The arenaceous walls, decorated with oddly shaped seashells we pick up along the beach, are exposed to the abominable downpours, the analeptic warmth of the sun and the forceful winds that threaten to crumble its very structure. And yet, despite knowing the end, we persistently build anyway. “What is the point?” another had questioned. Brilliant question, I had thought. The end is not at all abstract. Sandcastles will collapse into indistinguishable heaps of sand, washed away by the sweeping waves that rush ashore. It is apparent that nothing lasts forever. The answer to that question is, perhaps, subjective. Carrying on the human race, cynics might say. Opportunities, love and friendship, enthusiasts might say. But my answer is this: adventures, emotions and a time of no regrets.