A few years ago, along the pristine beach skirting across the northern edges of Malapascua, Philippines, I picked up a twig and inscribed a few words on the sandy beach. In pulses of moments, the wave kissed the beach and the inscriptions were washed into ambiguity. I picked up the same twig again and inscribed the same three words, and when it was almost scripted into perfection, the next gush of turquoise water came washing in and took them away. I repeated the same ordeal a few times, and every time the waves will come and bring it back to the sea.
And finally I gave up.
Sometimes, life has planted it in such a way that, no matter how hard, how determined and how confidently you try to carve the same few words, the sea will relentlessly remove it. It is not a matter of how much toil you put in to keep the words on the sand. The inscriptions will never last if they were parked at the wrong place and the wrong time, when the tides are high, and where the waves can kiss the sand.
Soon the ebb will come in and roll out again, and the same few words, will leave with them.
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