It is late afternoon, the sun stands low over the Mediterranean sea. We’re at the northern coast of Algeria, just outside of Algiers to the west. Jet Skis rumble far in the distance. We’re in a restricted area. No tourists, just locals. A slight fog in the air from boat and car exhausts, a bit of dust.
We’re building a sandcastle, trying to make it as good as we can in the time that we have. For a brief moment, there is nothing else on our minds. Then I am looking at it beneath us, just a few waves away from returning to the sand. So beautiful. So insignificant.
My mind wanders. I see four large buildings in the distance, apartment towers. “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.” Strange that this is coming back to me in such a moment.
I think about Roy Batty’s monologue and the meaning of stories from time to time. About grains of sand. In a way, we’re all building our own sandcastles. We tell stories about them, desperately trying to preserve them somehow. And we only truly die when the last story about us is forgotten. I’m with the Mexicans on this one.
For many years now I have taken notes, often thousands of words per day. When I am gone, this vast collection of my thoughts and ideas will serve to train a model of myself. It won’t be me but it will make some of what used to be me immortal. There will be one tiny castle in the sand that won’t be washed away. A story that won’t have an end.
It’s time to go home. My son is happy. I look back at the sandcastle. Such a tiny thing, barely visible. Yet so beautiful, a magical moment living on in our memories.
And now in yours.
