"Once last summer I was coming home from Fort Stockton. I parked the car out at the sandhills, and walked a far way from the road, so that I didn't see the lights anymore. The moon wasn't bright it seemed to say, I'm tired, I'll shine some other night. But the sky was like cloth, close enough to touch. I sat there, kind of burrowed down in the sand, and I just knew, for that little while, that I was part of - of everything. That if I put my hand out what it touched was far away from Basin, far away from my whole life right now. I realized, if I just hold on, I'll find out what I'm supposed to do."
- Walking Dunes by Sandra Scofield, p. 188
I saw the vast expanse of the ocean glitter under the eternal skyline, the self-luminous planetary bodies of heaven and the night lights from edifices reflected on its waters - a steady reminder of how beautiful humanities can be. Debris has lined the shores of the ocean, but in the distance, it is nothing short of scenic beauty. For a while, there was a sweeping feeling of tranquility pressing unto my soul that all worries and apprehensions had seemingly subsided. This is South Harbor at the dead of night.
It was just the thing that I needed to view; a sign, perhaps, the one that we often ask for when we feel lost. It was sheer serenity, one that I haven't felt in a long time. Never had I felt so homely and safe than I ever did tonight. Never mind the lateness of the hour, or these things that I am obliged to do tomorrow - never mind those things that keep a a tight knot in my stomach. It's a slaughterhouse; discombobulation at its finest. But then, there it is. And I get sucked into a round of gratitude and comfort.
Tomorrow will be what it is: the future. Vague, incomprehensible; luminous, nerve-wrecking. Everything else is here. Everything else is divine. Everything else is worth it.
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