I walked along the shore line in the dark, the stark contrast of the hotel lights on the left against the waves that faded into blackness on the right captivated me. The persistant waves seemed all that stood between me and the abyss of space, looming peripherally on the right while cool sand crushed beneath my saunter.

The beach in twilight was not something I’d seen much of or really taken in before, but it hit me again for the first time in years how beautiful the world is in fleeting moments where it shuts the hell up. Beyond the bustle was something more breathtaking than any cliche beach shot you could take during the day.

The jellyfish had been washing up on shore earlier that day, so I popped my eyes to the oncoming sand on and off to scan for a glisten in the moonlight that demanded the occasional sidestep. Some of them were tiny, no bigger around than a golf ball. Others were almost as wide as a basketball. Terri spotted them better than me, probably in part because I kept re-experiencing  a sense of awe at the horizon. I’d been pressing myself hard, maybe harder than I ever have (and I could use it), and it was clear in the lull how much moments like that refilled the well within and made the effort of trying to create something fun and exciting again.

Life is a series of horizons, the difference ever being what you put yourself in front of and how you take it in.

I breathed in hard, trying to register some level of smell the cold I’d snagged just before the trip had sundered away. For the briefest of moments I smelled salt and fish, and smiled at the resolution that “yup, that’s the ocean.” Could’ve just been an evening walk; could’ve just been waves in the dark. I was drinking it in, swallowing the substance of a dream until it was real.