The other night I was chasing the sunset. I took an old friend on a hike with me—“Grace” by Jeff Buckley. It’s that season of my life again. Sometimes, at the end of a day, I need to get so far out and high up that I can almost see the faint line of a rim separating myself from the suffocating bubble of the city. The light is too pretty at sunset. Even prettier for the smog that often cuts across the L.A. skyline like the discoloring of an old shirt. Beneath the smog line is murky onyx and gray, lit up by the city’s amber lights; like fireflies in a pot of black ink. Above the stain line is purple haze and royal blue, wispy pink clouds and the blinding slice of a moon. Some nights I find it too much to take in alone. It’s one thing to want to manage life’s trials with someone else, but it’s something else to want to take on the world’s overwhelming beauty as a shared experience. It doesn’t seem fair for one person to have to work it out solo. It often reduces me to tears. I’ve hiked the same trails for years, and as I do I’m reminded of different trials of my life that have played out over these same dirt tracks. And often I see ghosts.
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