The vast expanse of the beach lay before him like the open world that waited for him to challenge himself. But he wouldn’t budge from his squatting position in the middle. He picked up a handful of sand and held it in front of his eyes, the hand over his knees. He gently closed his fist tighter, the nails biting into the sand, and as they escaped his possessive fingers, his palm. He wondered why.
He tried everything he could. He caught the free flowing sand in his other hand and tried the same. The hand was slowly getting dispossessed every time. He took some water and poured all over it. Now he could shape and mold the sand as he wanted. None of the cast he made was impressive. The fun of the free flowing sand was lost on these shape shifting figures. It was not lovable anymore.
He decided to leave the sand to itself. The impatience was not going to pay off. Not trying hard this time, he let it fall from his hand. This is probably the right thing, he thought to himself. The little that stayed back in his hand, was lovable, priceless and secured. His sandbox.