You sound like the old man who sits by the sea and sings songs of heartbreak. I sound like the old lady he sings for.
Life aged us, my dear. We are like the ship that weathered a storm too many. The house that shook through many earthquakes. But survived. We had no choice. We had to survive for each other.
We lost pieces of us in the sandstorms. Bit by bit, the strong winds chipped away the bright and shiny periphery, exposing the unpleasant reality. But I suppose that’s ok. We both know that it is the reality that matters.
Sometimes I look for pieces of me that I lost in the sands of time. The footprints of people who walked through. The pieces of me that got chipped weathering battleships. I look and I look. But everything has been erased during sandstorms. Everything has blended in the white sands, and I realize the pieces and the footprints don’t matter. Sandcastles don’t last long. What last are the memories. Keep making sandcastles though. Because hope is a beautiful thing.