Returning to the West Coast

Returning to the West Coast hurt my soul in shards. Sometimes you realize that stability is an illusion. That the deep green coniferous trees and the rolling distance blue of the mountains pressing up against the sky into the sea may serve as a constant, but people are not. Even our landscape is incredibly fragile, subject to our influences, and I wonder where this force comes from in our nature to upset, to shift, to press forward. Whether time truly is the culprit, or a human construct set as a scapegoat. Yet I revel in my humanness and drink in the salt spray air with open hopes singing to the cloud-strewn horizon. No answer is necessary. For now, I am home at last.