The Sandtemple and pain

Imagine this: you’re small, stupidly happy. Knees in the sand, palms sticky with wet grains, the sun burning the top of your head, and the world is huge but kind. You’re building a castle. Not just a pile of sand — a castle. The towers are crooked, but proud. A moat filled with water shines like a real sea. You believe in it. This is your home, your fortress, your tiny universe where everything finally makes sense.

And then a man walks by. Big, heavy, with empty eyes. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t stop. He just kicks it. One casual movement, like it means nothing. The towers collapse, the moat chokes with sand, everything turns into dust and mush. He keeps walking, as if nothing happened. For him, it’s a second. For you, it’s the end of the world.

You sit there, not understanding. Your chest burns, your throat tightens, you want to scream but stay silent. Because you still believe the world is supposed to be good. And that’s why it hurts twice as much: you weren’t ready for cruelty without a reason, for destruction out of boredom. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just building.

And somewhere in that moment, something important clicks. You learn for the first time that there are people who can’t stand someone else’s happiness. They have to break it, because inside they’re already ruins. And you sit there among the wreckage, sand on your cheeks — and it’s not just the castle that was destroyed. Someone just struck your trust.
Quietly. Without words. But right on target.