Brighton

It just occurred to me that I’ve never been to a beach with such a late sunset. It’s a shame, isn’t it? For the days to be long, in a place where there are no sands to sink your feet into. Yet to say so is a bit facetious; I am told there are some nice beaches somewhere in this country. Perhaps the shame is that such places are always further, rather than closer. On that note, I’ve heard people complain about this place. The beach is pebbly, the waters cold and murky, thoughts of the like. I wonder, what is it that informs our notion of the beauty of a place like this? Is it but a form that we have innate knowledge of? Are there colours we desire, ones that we would travel miles and days for? Or do we seek nothing but extremes, from the rugged solitude of cliffs beyond reach to an unimpeachable sense of do-nothingness invoked by warm summer haze and sands formed by the near-eternal coming and going of the tides? Is there beauty in the middling? Or—can there be beauty in the middling? If only your heart did not betray your answer.

I. There’s a couple making out on this beach. I wonder if it’s not uncomfortable; I suppose that is why they are fully clothed.
II. Two people are playing fetch here with their dogs. The catch is, well, the dogs never catch the thrown object—a pebble—and the object is never returned. Is it still a game of fetch if nothing is ever retrieved? I wonder too what the dogs think, but I imagine that they’d rather run than find.
III. Speaking of long summer days, would a beach at a place with endless summer days be enjoyable? Do we seek out beginnings and endings? Or is it more so that there is beauty at such an hour?