leaving prints...

Life is a beach. We cannot possibly walk it without leaving footprints. At one point or another, our stretch of coastline intersects with someone elses, and our footprints may be in the same places as theirs are.

If we could take a picture of that long line of imprints, we can see sometimes that they're straight, and other times they resemble a huge crossed pattern of jumbled messes. It's never truly clean, in that sense. It's kind of like the footprints you see in those how-to-dance books. Because life IS a dance, as well as a beach. Or it is a dance on the beach. It takes two to tango, and waltzing alone is sad.

Most are fortunate enough to find dance partners, even for a little while. Sadly, less than half of us are adequate dancers. Too often, we step on toes, mix steps up, badly bungle the whole affair. And for that, we are sometimes remembered. Usually more than those perfect routines. And sometimes, remembered for the worst of reasons. Like how it could have been better.

Sometimes, we pine for a particular partner, especially if the dance was unfinished. Or, the stroll was incomplete. It's like telling the other person to go ahead as you stop for that ice-cream.

I stopped for an ice-cream that's yet to come. I danced the wrong dance to the wrong music. Both times, I could have waited for better timing. Both times, I probably should have continued on my path alone. But loneliness likes company. Which is irony in the purest sense.

We should have artificial beaches with no-fat, no-sugar, no-fun, ice cream.

Meh.