I missed the sunset, but I was there for the afterglow

Nestled in the supple comfort of an old leather chair and sipping a glass of watered-down scotch, I looked at the light catching the bare trees along Forest Avenue. It was only six-thirty, but the colors that I saw told me the day would not last much longer. Weariness from a day of tree climbing and dune hiking and wood piling melted into the chair and held my limp body there like glue. A restless tug, coming from a place somewhere between my head and my heart, beckoned me towards the shore and the setting sun, and I was caught in limbo.  

Time has been relentless. It slips away so quickly that I forget to live in the moment. I lay out my future in the cluttered pages of my planner, and in the present I become a robotical thespian, bound to the calendar script I live by. The present is clouded by my constant awareness of the past and the future. Where is my heart when my head is talking? Where is my head to translate what my heart keeps trying to tell it? A part of my conscious always seems to be drifting around somewhere else.

That day, I missed the sunset. But, with the help of some friends, I made it there for the afterglow. The clouds were purple, the sky was orange, and the waves crashed black and cold against the pier.