There’s something about the ocean that feels infinite.
You can stand there for hours,
watching the water breathe in and out,
and still feel like you’ve barely seen it at all.
When the sun begins to sink,
the light turns to honey —
soft, forgiving, alive.
It touches the waves like a promise,
and the horizon becomes a line between what is and what could be.
In that hour, everything slows.
The noise quiets,
the thoughts settle.
Even grief seems to pause long enough to listen.
The ocean doesn’t demand anything from you.
It just exists — endless, patient, vast.
And somehow, that’s enough to remind you that you can, too.
Watching the sun go down feels like watching hope shift form —
it doesn’t disappear;
it just changes colors.
And when it finally slips beneath the water,
you realize you’ve been holding your breath the whole time.
The ocean is breathtaking not because it’s perfect,
but because it reminds you of everything that still moves,
still lives,
still shines,
even after the day ends.
Through the Fog 