One hundred years ago, people did not hold on so tightly. Generosity was a principle between cultures. So that is how the one hundred year old statue's head ended up on a beach...
The colossal head penetrates the sandy shore; its soft features blend in with the round pieces of broken off-white shells. Its once-closed-eyes have become dug out pockets for nesting seabirds, while seaweed and feathers are caught on his ears.
It was brought by boat, like most bad and good things. An offering to the Gods that governed the people- the statue was meant to stand tall. But what could stay erect and without humility over a belligerent people plagued by lust and pride?
All anyone really wants is to feel at home.
At night, the statue saunters east. While the metropolis moves fast around him, he moves little by little. Only the children are sinless enough to notice his gradual retreat towards home. But who would care about a one hundred year old statue that longed for home? After war he is chipped and darkened. After waiting he is green with moss and softened by the birds that nest in his crevices. His limbs begin to feel the weight of his years and, slowly, he comes apart. No one notices his crash to the ground. No one watches as the colossal head of the statue rolls down the hill. Barreling over plant and road, nature and man. Down, down. Hitting a bump, the head is suspended in the air for just a moment, and then the journey is over. Immersed in the gentle beach sand, the statue is complete. The embracing roll of the waves takes his chiseled cheeks and his worn down nose. With every wash of the green sea foam, a piece, a particle, of the statue is taken home.