I built a sandcastle and thought it was me.

Constructed by hand, infused with passion,
each grain meticulously placed,
I sacrificed sunlit hours and sea-kissed moments
to build it bigger, grander.
People praised the castle, and by extension, me,
as if I were the architect of some great monument.

Over time, the sandcastle became an extension of me,
its turrets and walls blending with my own identity,
a sandy limb, an accidental twin.

But the inevitable came—forces beyond our control,
the indifferent tides and relentless winds.
They knocked down the magnificent structure,
leaving me weeping on the shore,
compelled to rebuild, as if to restore
a part of myself washed away.

Then, one day, standing over the ruins
of yet another failed attempt,
I saw it clearly: I am perfectly fine
not building another.
I am not my sandcastle.
I am a magnificent entity on my own,
solid and enduring, without need of fragile fortresses.

Sandcastles were merely trappings,
a pastime for idle hands and restless minds.
Those who admired only the sandcastles are gone,
their fleeting praise carried off by the breeze.
And what is left is me, liberated,
standing strong, free of sandy illusions......