millions of little dirtinesses

Yesterday I found that the sand was still there, at the beach, right where it belongs. I kidnapped some grains into my living room where they felt like little dirtinesses out of place under my feet. Then technology and my body grumbled and stuff did not get done once again. The sun was unhelpful as always, and my thoughts .. oh my thoughts.

On my left there was a couple of weeks. On my right someone I would never reach, because he walked away from me before I could give life to imagination. When I looked at him he seemed puzzled, moving his body into my line of sight to make sure that it was him I was looking at. As if it would make a difference. I already owned that place, but how could he know? How could he know that he had just become a prop in my play, and that he was under my direction? So I turned around and looked at the couple of weeks instead.

I walked in late on my own show. Everyone seemed to know what to do. Should I stay or should I go? I decide. If I leave right now, nothing would happen. If I wait there might. But I rather look at the sun and shiver. Then he gets up, preliminates. Wears a jumper, plugs music or a telephone call into his ears. Shakes little dirtinesses of his towel, his bag. He makes his way to the concrete, does not look back to the salt and the sand, apparently careless.

When I turn around again, he is gone. With him he took the clouds so the sun can see me again. All there is left are millions of dirtinesses in my play. And a new prop has walked into the scene. I urgently need to reconsider my directing qualities. But alternatively, I left my shoes on warm concrete and stood in the rain.