Sand tickles my feet whenever I go to the beach. Saltwater filters my nose, a melancholic scent of the past,- a past I wish I could let be.It wasn't my history yet it was more than mine. In those fleeting moments, when memories of someone else hung over my shoulder, like a tipsy, cruel butterfly, itching to kill some time, I remember my Sand Palace.
Of course, back then it wasn't called that, I think. No one would term such a marvelous structure as a simple 'Sand Palace'. But it was 'my' personal pet name for it.
I haven't stepped into it, but I could feel crevice, every texture, every grain of sand under my finger tips. Grains of sand would strewn the floor, like crushed stars. Perhaps that's why I love walking barefoot. Velvet carpets, musty with seawater. Seagulls bleeping from a distant, singing their careless, demented symphony. The ocean's lulling waves would try to conceal their savage cries, but She never completely could. Forces of nature never could get along together completely.
When I hear others chat among-st themselves, I hear the court.
The throne would be at the center. And people would be there. Subjects, companions, enemies, lovers,-they're all there. They intrude in my dreams and 'that' person's memories with nameless faces. Those faint familiar faces meant something to that 'woman', but felt just as dear to me. Funny how much I could miss those I've only seen in borrowed memories.
Most of the time, though, as a punishment and act of mercy, the 'woman' would not let them trespass the Palace when I would visit it in my mind. I was content to just stare at its glory. That was as much she would allow me, anyways. But sometimes when I'm in a particularly reminiscent mood , I would skip beyond the sun-soaked white boulders to the field of flowers. To be honest, I did not have the slightest clue about what flowers they were. They were lilies in way, but more crumpled and droopy, as if someone crushed wet A4 sized paper and threw it on a stem. Eccentric ones, but I loved them nonetheless.
And then reality's prickly finger pokes me back, away from 'my' Palace. 'She' yanks me back to my world too. Our iron chains clank as I return. Her lips curve in that sadistic, condescending smile of ours, like a sister who shows her brand new porcelain doll to her younger sister and takes it away once she was comfortably playing with it. That Palace would always be hers, no matter how many details I could muster from her memories. And envy would burn in my stomach.
She found pleasure in my distress, even though we were both prisoners of time, born in the wrong body, the wrong time and wrong soul. Imprisonment taints your mind.
But then I realized the Palace was no longer, like dumping a bucket of ice water on my face.
Water-less tears would escape from my eyes. I wasn't only crying for myself, or the fact that the Sand Palace was gone, but that the true owner could never return home.