Footsteps in the sand

There were so many of them, these little imprints in the sand. Big, and small, and of medium variety. I could not tell from which persons they came. I had no idea who was here before me, who ruined the beautiful smoothness of the sand, before I had the chance to make my own imprints.

Then I saw it. A wave. Stormy, and rolling, and crashing, and moving. And it came closer, and closer, as I just stood there, not wanting to move, hoping, just hoping, that it wouldn't touch me. But it came to me anyway, and it rolled over my feet, up my legs, even drenched my skirt. And then it receded, went back where it came from.

And in it's wake, the sand was now smooth again. There was nothing to show from before. I took my first few steps, and there was only me, as if there had never been anyone else. As if I was the first.

Because the slate is always wiped clean. You always have a fresh start, to make your own impact. And after you, it will be clean once again.