To write.

She watched the sunset and wanted to cry. A father flies a kite with his son, lovers young and old meet and hide amongst the hanging branches and thick brush, the mist or fog or low flying clouds created an effect on the Malibu hills that made it look so picturesque or she would even say ethereal, if she was into that sort of thing. The whole scene was something seen only in romantic comedies. And then there was the ocean. Oh she would be so happy and content with her life if she could just sit for the rest of her life and stare at the ocean. To sit and contemplate the vast power of it, or the way the water brings smiles to children and adults alike in its way of tickling one’s feet or surprising one with its temperature. Or the way the sunlight reflected off the water, almost making one believe that there were two suns setting coming to meet each other at the horizon.
But contemplating simple beauties of the world does not issue a paycheck. Nor does it provide a socially acceptable education. Two things that were of constant concern for her. So she wrote. About love and the question of its existence, loss and heartache of which seemed to have a constant place in her life, confusion which came as a terrible by-product of youth slowly dissipating and transforming into adulthood, and friendship the only thing that seemed to make sense to her most of the time. She wrote to remember and in some ways to forget, but mostly to try and accept and understand why she was dealt the hand she held, and tried to figure out the rules of the game. ‘Everything’s so difficult,’ she often thought about it all, almost always followed with thoughts of defeat and failure. But as much as she, and she was sure everyone else had to, feel this way at one point or another, she couldn’t quit. It didn’t matter how bad she wanted to, she refused. Re-strategize was what she had to do, as difficult and unfeasible as it seemed. Because while there is so much pain and desperation and suffering in the world, there is also much beauty. And as terrible as days and nights and months and years can become, the sun always rises with the hope of something better. There are good days. Though there seem to be very few in comparison with the bad, they do exist. So with this thought, she rose from her perfect spot with the perfect view. She went on to once again attempt to accept that though she couldn’t just sit at her spot to watch and appreciate the beauty and grace and power of such things as the ocean forever, she could at least pause and visit. And maybe even once in a while, write.