The sand on the beach of Den Haag is somewhat hard; a feel of artificiality. It is pumped out of the sea bottom way out in the open. It is then brought back to shore and used to shape the beach. The sand on the beach of Den Haag is somewhat cold; a feel of non-familiarity. It is stacked and pressed upon to withstand the tides. It is caressed by a chilly northern wind to re-remind itself of its geographic stigma. Here I am then, barefoot, walking half-drunk along this cold, somewhat artificial sand. The sun is setting behind my back; behind the monolithic harbor of Rotterdam. It is within several miles from where I'm standing, yet the cargo ships--bright lit and slow-moving--still look their size: skyscraper-high and continent-wide, matching that of the harbor itself. The clouds are hanging low. The sun is sinking in the harbor lights; I can only assume the sunset is magnificent. Old--early childhood--fears, you see, prevent me from gazing at it, for the ships are there to re-remind me of my miniscule existence. Here I am then, almost non-existent, almost drunk, walking along the beach. It was really hot an hour ago; not anymore. A chilly northern wind is pushing me towards the dunes. What was there to be said was said; words are overrated. What was there to be thought of has already been thought of; thoughts are overrated. Silence then? An empty mind? There is no such thing as an empty mind. Neurons have a mind of themselves--sort of speak--and, thus, defy our authority over them. Here I am then, non-existent, drunk, thoughtless yet in thoughts, walking on hard sand. For a moment there I think I want to take my shirt off and throw myself in the shallow end of the North Sea. I don't. Here I am then, too late to go to bed, to early to start thinking of tomorrow; stuck in present tense. But isn't this exactly what life is? Stuck in present tense? Experiencing the ever-escaping moments? Now is instantly being turned into then; present lives only to see itself turn into past in non-conceivably little time. And the future? Distant future is as blur as distant past; proximal future is merely past waiting to happen. This is what we are living off you see: moments thin as non-existence. Here I am then, having stopped walking--no obvious future to run after--sitting on cold, artificial sand; eyes straight to the north; wind in my face. Is this it then? The realization of the end of living, for what is the reason to keep on striving if the present is born obsolete, the future is rendered past, and the past is long-forgotten? Actually, it takes an enormous effort to turn each present moment into a memory, in takes a bigger effort to withstand the weight of future expectations, and an even bigger one to preserve--though in a highly-selective manner--the past in our heads. Make no mistake, we feed off memory whichever way preserved, we live on expectations of better or worse future; the present is all that's left unspoiled: almost naive--as myself half-drunk, almost spontaneous--as my lying flat on this non-hospitable layer of sand, almost soothing--as the thought of it being too late to go to bed and to early to start thinking about tomorrow. Here I am then, up on my feet again, turning a hundred-and-eighty degrees, walking with a fast pace towards the harbor of Rotterdam, drawn to the lights like an insect to a lamp, facing a childhood fear tattooed on my memory, now running, another twenty or so miles to go, no matter; here I am then, re-inventing the present, for it is too late to go to bed and too early to think about tomorrow, left floating in the present tense, now running fast, my legs pushing against the cold, somewhat artificial sand with as much strength as the wine has left in them, the lights becoming brighter as the sun is hiding behind enormous cargo ships; here I am, empty-minded and light-headed, short of breath yet full of satisfaction, slowing down yet not giving up; here I am, now on all fours, as if I'm swimming on dry land, few meters away from the shallow end of the North Sea, my fears paralyzing my limbs, but my neurons striving to get them to take me there; here I am, in a reiterating present refusing to become past, living life as never before; and then stopping. Completely. Conclusively. Frozen, and a million thoughts bombarding my mind. Face down on the cold, somewhat artificial sand. Defeated? No. I take my shirt off, collect my once shuttered self and jump in the water._
