The Sand

THE SAND

a short story by Hai Hoang

Mark Rothko | Green On Blue | 1956

The last time I saw the ocean was a rather uneventful summer in Danang when I was fifteen. I was on a trip with my family and some random tour guide whom I do not remember either his name or his appearance. Because there was a tour guide we pretty much had no freedom to explore the city on our own, and we indulged in all the tourist attractions that millions of people have also gone to: Hoi An, Ba Na Hills, the Dragon Bridge. That is why on that day I woke up early and spent my solitude walking by the ocean.

The sun has not yet risen. There was a moment of unclarity between the boundaries that were supposed to separate the sky, the water, and the land, the vagueness of colors intruded on each other’s territories violently, like an unfinished Rothko. The moment was pure as the world existed only as monotones, and phenomena distinguished themselves from each other not by saturation but by contrast. There was blue, a dark blue, and a darker blue. The beach was a precise moment in which the world had only escaped the night but was not yet tainted by the violent redness gaze of the soon-to-be-seen sun. There is a pungent aroma of salt and fresh seafood floating in the air. The atmosphere was filled with soothing sounds, from the waves, from my feet' friction with the sand, from my own breath, coming from my left ear to my right ear, and vice versa, with absolutely no sense of rhythm, everything was chaotic but this chaos is very much pleasurable. It is good to let things out of your control sometimes, like all things have been, and all things should be.

I had no recollections of why I was where I was, and how I had put myself into that situation. There was a slight confusion whenever I thought back about this particular memory, I do not know whether the sky sparked my curiosity and forced me out of bed early for a long walk, or because I happened to be awakened from a dreamless sleep and was immediately charmed by the sky. But that did not matter at all, for the sky was clear in its vagueness, like how my melancholy is sparked with joy.

I first met Daffodil that day. On the beach, there she sat all alone as if she could make herself perish any moment the waves paused, or when the cold water hit the sole of her feet. She turned her back away from the dull land and faced the ocean and the sky, perhaps she was trying to touch the furthest horizon with her gaze, as if she was facing the path of time itself, pondering how the time we have in this world is so short, but with moments like this, it felt like an eternity. Solitude can bring out one’s most disturbing thoughts, but also the most mellow peacefulness. At that moment she was almost a part of nature, she was unaware of my existence and sat still like a lifeless rock, stoic and cold, unaware of everything, and let the sand, the water, and the heat slowly bury any sense of Self until she becomes completely empty.

At that moment I felt a terrifying sense of shame and shyness, that somehow my presence has completely ruined this beautiful harmony, that I do not belong nor deserve this exquisite sensation I am feeling. It took a lot of courage for me to even take my first step. The second step was even more agonizing. But soon I got over the weight of my timidity, the third, the fourth steps suddenly did not feel as bad, and soon enough, I was only a few inches away from her. Yet there was a horrible sense that there was an infinite space of emptiness in between.

‘I see you.’ said Daffodil, but her voice was so soft that it got muddled in the sound of the wind and the waves, the sound was almost uninterpretable.

‘You see me.’ I answered, but that answer was meaningless, as I was only merely confirming her affirmation of my existence. But it was necessary because at that moment I was not sure if I existed. ‘I am terribly sorry for the disturbance. It appears that I have somehow ruined this peaceful moment between you and the waves.’ I added a courteous yet vague apology that somehow did not sound sincere at all, but for the sake of politeness, I said it anyway, only to immediately regret my words.

‘It’s okay. I don’t think there is anything in this world that can disturb me anymore.’ said Daffodil. ‘Do have a seat. The sand feels rough and unwelcoming at first, but it is just very shy. The sand has never gotten used to the prints of the human sole on its naked body. But as long as you treat it with respect, the sand will do the same for you. Nature can be your greatest friend or greatest enemy, and you get to make that choice.’

I did just that, and the sand was indeed quite cold and soggy because we were right at the edge of the ocean. As I sat down next to Daffodil, I suddenly felt a force of repulsion from the sand, it was hard-edged and cold, but I tried to be as cordial and gentle with all of my movements. Soon, the sand ceased its denial, and it felt warm to be embraced by anything, even by the lifeless sand. From the moment Daffodil started speaking to me up until now, she had not yet looked at me yet. Her eyes were glued to the rising sun. There was only us and the sublime tranquility of the ocean.

‘It’s still very early. There is absolutely no one here. So why are you here sitting by yourself?’ I asked, but as I recollected what I have just said, it did not feel like a friendly icebreaker but rather a cold interrogation between an officer and a defendant.

‘I could ask you the same thing too. It is rather easy to ponder all the stupid questions we can in our lives. But I think that if we are right here, right now in this early hour, we both know why we are here. It is because you feel the same thing that I feel. But feelings are not easily translated into words, you must have already known this, am I right?’ Daffodil’s voice was even softer, like a morning breath, it sounds so vulnerable that it feels like she does not need a response because if there is hypothetically a response, all the words and punctuations and grammar would completely crumble into pieces. She is tranquil, the ocean is equally her as she is equally it.

‘I understand.’ I said, and just as I thought, everything completely broke down. It was not visible to the human eyes but every ounce of the human heart can feel it. Thinking back, I somehow felt that all of this was my fault and I had ruined everything, even though there can be no rational explanations for it.

‘I am K.’ I said.

‘I am Daffodil.’ Finally, she looked at me. I noticed how big and sparkly her eyes were.

The conversation went on pretty much like any normal conversation. Daffodil was two months older than me. Turns out, she has been studying high school in London, in a small little intersection somewhere between Greenwich and Canary Wharf. I have never been to London of course. I remembered the names of these random areas because they sounded funny to the ear, somehow it sounded rhythmic and poetic in a way, but they had absolutely no meaning to me. For the last two years, and this is the first time she returned to Vietnam ever since. I broke the ice a little bit by doing a rather poor imitation of the British accent that I caught up by listening to all the John Lennon records. Daffodil told me that in England nobody listens to The Beatles anymore, they have become tourist baits. In souvenir shops, especially in Central London near Trafalgar Square or Piccadilly, there were always little shops owned by the Middle Eastern immigrants that sell merchandise of The Beatles, printing the Abbey Road logo on mugs, hoodies, and ashtrays. I managed to make her spare me a chuckle, but whether she actually found my accent funny or she only laughed because it was polite, I do not know. Her laugh sounded peculiar as if one spends too much interpreting it, one would also get lost in the very act of interpretation.

‘Did you know John Lennon died on the same day I was born?’ I said, ‘Obviously not the same year though. But it’s true. The 8th of December. So I have always had this deep connection with John. There is something special, I think. I absolutely adored Paul, George, and Ringo too, don’t get me wrong, their talents are undeniable. But John has always been my favourite. He refused to conform, and he stood by what he said, even though he was killed for it in the end. And all he said was that he wanted peace for everyone.’

‘But didn’t he cheat on his wife and beat her?’ said Daffodil.

‘I supposed he did. The case of separating the art from the artist has always been controversial. When I knew about what John did, I was devastated of course. Turns out the person you have been idolizing for years is actually a terrible person. But I learned to cope with it anyway. I guess I could say the same about Hemingway because he was a racist, or Picasso because he absolutely despised women. In the end, I just tell myself that they are also humans like we are, and we all have stupid idiosyncrasies. I think that we can always learn something from anybody, even if he or she turns out to be the worst person in the world.’

‘I asked just because I was curious.’ Daffodil touched my shoulder, but immediately realised what she did and was repulsed. ‘But I pretty much agree with you too. It sounds hopelessly optimistic but I think every human being is capable of doing good, even if he is deemed to be a bad person by society. I could never forget the first time I listened to Imagine. My dad was a big fan of vinyl, and at home, we have a whole room just for listening to music. My dad was more into classical music, especially the Romantic era so I remembered the melodies of Chopin and Liszt floating around the house all the time. But those music has never really touched me, I think. Maybe because it is an acquired taste. But one time my dad chose to play Imagine. Because it was in English I did not understand what he is singing about, but the music flowed so smoothly that when it ended, it felt like I was in a deep sleep on a tree, and suddenly it fell down. That was my first memory.’

I thought about my own first memory. That hot summer day when I leaned my small body on the window pane. That hot summer day when there was a phantom in my room.

‘Tell me more about London.’ I asked Daffodil, trying to get away from my own thoughts, partly because I was very curious too. I had never been to any Western countries at the time.

‘London is… different. What I mean is not only it is different compared to Hanoi, but also compared to what I thought London is. I did not feel any cultural shock at all. Pretty much everything and everyone is just like what I saw on TV. The day before I went, I remembered everyone telling me that I would be so shocked because London is a city for capitalists, I would be so homesick and they would say that I would know nothing because I would be all alone as if I am incapable of saving myself.’

‘That sounds terrible.’

‘Well, they are partially correct, to be honest. Sometimes I feel there is a weight within me that nobody can see, and people think that I have had it easy my entire life. But it is so heavy, so much that I spent my entire life pretending to be slightly normal, but actually, I have been fighting this battle all alone. So they are right. Sometimes I feel like I am incapable of saving myself, and I sometimes also feel like I would rather destroy myself instead.’

‘But still,’ I said ‘It must be so annoying to have relatives like that. I hate the type of people who only cause unnecessary anxiety to others, as if somehow by doing so, they think that they are better than us, that they have been through the so-called “hard” life, and they think that their experiences are somehow worth more than our naivety. But the truth is those people barely have an opinion that is their own, what they call their opinions is just poor research combined with word of mouth. That must be so tiring for you.’

‘Yes, but I have learnt to not care about all that. They are just concerned about me. To think about it, even though they are quite uninformed about London and all that, some of the things they say are true. There is this underground line called Jubilee in Central London, and the first time I came there I had no idea how to spell it. I thought it was similar to the fast food chain Jollibee and when I asked people for the directions, they thought I was thinking about fried chicken or something.’

I let out a genuine laugh and seized the opportunity to sit a little bit closer to Daffodil. She also noticed what I was trying to do, but she did not mind. Daffodil removes her ponytail and only then do I notice how long her black hair was. She continued her speech.

‘Everybody told me that I was so different when I came back here. I don’t know if I feel that way. I still feel the same, like I am me and there has always been a real me. People say that I have become so different in such nonchalant ways, that it feels like somehow my old self was not so desirable, and they had to murder her in a way. I don’t think I have changed at all. Every part of me that is me, they are still all alive together, even the ugliest parts.’

‘What is this ugliest part?’ I asked curiously.

‘That I cannot help but think that I will always be alone, forever.’ It felt like a weight had been lifted from Daffodil’s chest as those words were uttered, and she let out a deep sigh. ‘London is a strange city. It is always so busy with all these people passing by each other, but I still feel so alone. The people are too colorless. They all have the same cold British expression on their faces. Why do you think that the more people there are around you, the more you feel completely lonely?’

‘Go on.’

‘When I strolled by myself under all the massive, parallel skyscrapers, I saw thousands of shadows walking right through me. In London, nobody is the same. There were people from all kinds of races, there were tourists, there were true Londoners, and there were immigrants. But the city still feels so incredibly lonely. I think that the closer we are together, the more diverse we become, we somehow unconsciously share our loneliness with the world, and it becomes a part of the atmosphere, blending right into hydrogen and oxygen. Then everything became so cold, but the fact that we were all in this cold breeze together was warm. Everything was so sad and beautiful that I could have wept. But I didn’t, because everyone was so busy. If I do cry then, it would be so senseless that people have gotten used to this senselessness and walk right over me.’

‘If that is the case, then what do you feel right now? There is nobody except for the two of us. If the more people there are, the more lonely you feel, what do you feel when there is nobody at all?’

Daffodil turned silent. She looks far into the horizon in a contemplative gaze. Now that the conversation was partially paused for a moment, the sounds of the early morning can be heard again. There was the sound of the hungry seagulls flying far away from our reach, hunting for their breakfast. There was the cold wind that comes and goes fleetingly and unpredictably. There was the rhythmic sound of the waves that is the backbone of everything and put some structures to the cacophony of different sounds. The sun can be seen peeking out of its nest. The sky was no longer purely blue, there were cuts of red highlight on the clouds, like a fresh wound on the most smooth, supple skin. I noticed Daffodil’s face had become a little redder, and I suddenly feel the heat coming from inside of me, warming up my cheeks. My cheeks must be so pink now, as I could feel the warmth crawling under my skin.

‘I think that I am deeply cursed.’ Daffodil broke the silence. ‘I don’t think that I am capable of not feeling lonely, ever. This loneliness is different. When there are no people around, solitude does not help me to think clear thoughts. I feel like the silence of being completely alone is somehow mocking me, laughing hysterically at my curse, because it knows that I can never be cured. But I indulge in my solitude regardless. For my entire life, I have always felt a sense that I have never truly belonged anywhere. I do not understand the joyless hobbies of the upper-class people my dad always hangs out with, nor do I understand the true depth of despair of the poor. Days after days, I became more lost.’

I remained quiet to listen, and stared at Daffodil, while she stared at the ocean.

‘It is always that same silence.’ She continued. ‘It finds our confusion amusing and finds pleasure in our despair. That silence is everywhere. When you look up at the sky trying to reach for the highest stars, that silence is still there. The stars make us feel so small. We spend all of our lives moving from place to place, pretending to be so busy, but looking from above you can see how senseless everything is. We merely look like dots and commas, wiggling meaninglessly all over the world. During the years that I spend in London, all of my relationships began to be damaged, and they loosen themselves over time like screws on drywalls. I slowly lost one friend to another, the screws dropped on the hard floor, and the sound was so noisy. But I let them fall anyway. Two years have gone by, and all I have is a wall that is full of holes, making it beyond repair. Can I tell you a story?’

‘Yes’, I said.

‘It was the first Christmas I spent in London. This was almost two years ago. I had just broken up with my boyfriend at the time, like in any long-distance relationship. I did not feel angry because he chose a few days before Christmas to break up with me, because the feelings are mostly all gone. That night, I tried to bury myself in sleep, and I was successful for about an hour or so, but I woke up again in the midst of the night. Mindless, abstract thoughts swim within my brain like fish. Outside my window, the city looks so lively, because it is Christmas. I realised that my room was the only room that had no lights on. No Christmas trees. No fireplace. There was only me. The world outside was so beautiful, with snowflakes harmonising with the flickering bokeh of light, and all that fit perfectly within the frame of my window, like a painting by Pissarro. Pain is generally bad, but accompanied by the romantic solitude, it became a little bit more bearable. You know, after a breakup, the first twenty-four hours are always the worst, right?’

‘I have never dated anybody.’ I said. Daffodil was a bit surprised by my response, and her eyes got a little bit bigger, half believing me and half believing that I was telling a bad joke.

‘Well, the first twenty-four hours is the worst’ She went on. ‘At that moment, I missed him. I missed him terribly like there was an unsatisfying hunger that completely took control of my heart. The sound of my heart was so loud, and my stomach was shrieking the most nightmarish sounds, I realised that I had not eaten anything at all ever since he left me. London was still snowing. I watched the snow fall and fall, and I thought that if time was a snowstorm, I would let myself go into the violent flow, without any resistance. I felt that among all of this chaos, there was a hole full of silence, and I was slowly falling into it, or it was engulfing me. Either way, I don’t have a choice. That silence is made for me. I sat so still by the window and watched the party outside slowly burn out. People started to go home, the lights slowly perished away and it was three in the morning. All the windows in the night, became dark too, with all the happy people in there and their happy life, having the time of their lives. I also immersed myself in the darkness, enchanted by the city in the dark night. I have never experienced London in such quietness. I thought about my ex, he was probably somewhere in Hanoi, but I can never know exactly what he is doing, or who he spent his Christmas with. I remembered all the beautiful memories, but I also thought that I was being so irrational. Gradually all the lights went out and disappeared into nothingness. Except for one last window. Still bright, a beautiful golden light, like a candle in a house with no electricity. It was so far away, but I felt cosy regardless. I stared at it, waiting for the last light to go out so I could go back to sleep. I keep waiting, waiting forever, but still, it won't turn off. The light is still on. So I couldn't sleep. I immediately turned on the light in the room, I wanted to let the other window know, in this window, there is still me, still existing in this lonely night. I can feel that the other person can also sense my presence. But what good is that? Both windows can see each other clearly, but will never, forever be unable to meet. Two lonely lights, together until the end of Christmas Eve. I suddenly saw my ex with another girl, through that same window. My heart ached terribly, but I couldn't look away. I suddenly saw everything, I saw him decorate the tree with neon lights and thousands of tiny stars. The girl was sitting next to him, wearing a sweater that was too big for her. They must have been playing some Frank Sinatra song, and they were dancing together, hugging each other tightly, and giving each other passionate kisses. I still can't turn away. Suddenly, I bawled. I can't control it. Tears kept flowing, and I feel like I was the loneliest person in the city tonight. At that moment, the light from the other window finally went out. I was alone again, and I really thought I would jump out of my window at that time. My room is on the 7th floor, so once I fall down, my fate is guaranteed. No one will notice me either. It was four in the morning, and it was not until the next morning that someone discovered it. And then, the police will come to clean up the scene, and I would disappear forever as if I never existed.’

I didn't know what to say, so I decided to ask a superfluous question 'Then why are you still here? What changed your mind?’

‘Nothing. I just decided not to jump. I am strong enough to live on. After all, when I tell this story, I want everyone to know, that it was me, and only me, who convinced myself to continue to exist. But to say that I am not dead is not really. On the morning of the 25th, I woke up, but there was a big difference. Like I'm not me anymore. A part of me stayed on the 24th night, disappeared forever but forgot to say goodbye to me, immersed in the cold that night. Like I'm only half of me. But I've lost myself so many times, I'm unsure if it's really half this time, or I'm just left with a piece of 'me' in the original. After that, I kept going to school, and I met new people, but nothing made me feel as intense as that night. I also stopped crying. I can't cry anymore. I tried many times to find my lost pieces but to no avail. So I gave up. I am someone who gives up everything easily, but not this life.’

I replied, ‘But everyone loses themselves every day. Little by little, you lose more and more, and in the end, you will keep nothing of yourself.'

'We went in circles our entire lives to be right here at this beach. Next time we meet again, if there is a next time, you and I will lose a few more parts of ourselves. That’s why when people who haven't seen each other for a while say, you are so different from what I remembered. But there is no difference. Simply, they have lost themselves. People just don't have the courage to realize they're getting worn down day by day.'

We fell into silence again.

‘You know you have the eyes of a lover?' Daffodil said.

'I think so. But I am simply K.'

'You have the eyes of a sad lover. Only heartbroken people have eyes like that.'

'But I have never dated anyone. What do you mean?'

'Love is not the only thing that can make one sad. Life has many ways to make the human heart breaks into so many pieces.’ Daffodil said and smiled.

‘Oh.’

‘I like it when you look at me with sad eyes. The eyes become a little bit more honest when painted with a slight melancholy.’ Daffodil said, and I could feel her shoulder touching mine. She was silent for a moment, as if she is trying to re-examine her looks in her imagination. She has the innocent quality of an unconscious animal that has no awareness of its own sadness.

‘But do you wish me to be happy?’ I said.

‘I don’t want you to be happy.’ said Daffodil. ‘For some mindless people that is the only purpose in their life, it is the only cure for their misery. But for people like us, it is a terrible sickness. Their happiness is a loaded gun that shoots down our yearning for truth, or if not the truth then at least something more. Happiness is the recipe for mediocrity, I think.’ As Daffodil finished, she sighed quietly, in a secretive way, she did not want me to notice her sorrow. But it was evidently clear, her sadness.

‘That sounds hopeless.’ I finally whispered.

‘Such is a life for people like us.’ said Daffodil. ‘We are born for sadness. But it is a good thing. We are sad so that other people can be happy. We feel sad not only for our misery, and our torments like the rest of them, we feel sad for humankind as a whole. Besides, being sad is not so bad. It makes life so incredibly vibrant and beautiful.’

As I marvelled at Daffodil with starry eyes and leaned my body closer to hers, I find myself at the tip of my tongue, trying to say something probably significant, ready to whisper something important, yet I do not remember what exactly I was trying to say. It all felt natural, I was losing control over myself. She stared back at me with a curious gaze, the one that makes you wonder whether she is looking at you, or right through you to the deepest part of the soul. At that moment, she knew what I was trying to say. Who wouldn’t? What is hidden away is always the most obvious thing in life. I knew that she knew, we both knew that. She reached out to her lips with her finger and shushed, silencing me:

‘Be careful. If you say it out loud, you will lose it.’ said Daffodil.

Now the sun has fully risen. The sky is no longer one single colour anymore, but it is a mixture of every primary colour. The top of the sky was light blue, the horizon was yellow and the sun was red. The sounds of the ocean are drowned away and replaced by the noises of the early morning market, all the artificial noises of people selling their fish and squids, the honking of motorbikes and the chit-chatting of people we don’t know. I finally stood up and wiped the bottom of my pants to get rid of all the sands. As Daffodil also tried to stand up, I reached out my hand to help and she grabbed it. We walked together the whole morning until the heat was too unbearable by lunch.

Hai Hoang, 2023