Life is a footprint.

Bring me some shells and conches, was me said. So I went down to the beach.

The sea was rolling very peacefully its' waves over the sand. Footprints were there of every size. Dog traces as well.

The waves came slowly closer and one hopped over my feet.
Lots of shells and wet shoes later, I returned. My footprints weren't there anymore. Some waves erased them.

I looked to a fresh one and it appeared as life.

Life looked like that footprint; a movement in stilness, or maybe conventionally energy by causes and conditions. Not separed from the beach itself. No harm, no benefit to the beach. Life is a temporary footprint.

Woohoo! I returned toward the city where people were running around with bags.
I thought: this dwelling is only a temporary dreamlike footprint in which the grains of sand are pure or empty like they appear. They are an expression of the voidness of the beach itself.

So is this life in the street here; an expression of purity.

I smiled so happely.