I move in its direction for all of eternity and until the sun goes down and the thin lines of gold and hazy peach fade away and my steps are muddied in the inky dark. 

But the candles keep flickering next to the stars and the closet light I never turn off. And the ghosts are usually soft. And the children sleep with heavy breathing in piles of warmth. And soon enough, I look up, and the black horizon is gently watercolored with lavender, growing steadily, until the rainbow haze fills everything, bringing me back into the living painting of hope and light until my feet are moving again. 

Look to the horizon and find your place there.

It is all good. It is all for a reason.
No feeling is final. Stay with it.
Keep moving.

In art school, we were taught that the horizon line is the grounding force in any painting. “Where’s the horizon line?” a pretentious senior asks as I squirm under their eye and slash a line through the canvas, annoyed with the simplicity.

And yet, as I move through life and the landscape, my eye is on the horizon. Always. Upcoming. Uplifting. Constant. Calling.

I sometimes wonder if these miles of discovery were all a joke. 

The horizon is always out of reach.
Still calling.
Still showing off its spectacular colors from afar.
And all I have to show is a feeling (stay present), a line (stay true), a whisper (stay soft), a dream (stay awake), a glimmer (stay here).

But isn’t that enough?∎